


At First He Is A Boy

by NomdePlume



Series: Greek Song [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece, Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Alternate Universe - Historical, Ancient Greece, Athens, Best Friends, Childhood, Cuddling, Epic Friendship, Eventual Love Story, F/M, First Love, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friendship/Love, Gen, Greek Epic, Jealousy, Johnlock Roulette, Kid Fluff - Freeform, Kid John, Kid Sherlock, Kidlock, Kissing, Loss, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Mentions of paiderastia, Mutual Masturbation, Nothing explicit, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pederasty, Philosophy, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Possessive Behavior, SO MUCH FLUFF, Series, Sorrow, Teenlock, Underage Kissing, Underage Sex, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-08 15:49:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 78,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3214802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NomdePlume/pseuds/NomdePlume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock is four, he makes his first and greatest friend. Jon is his new tutor’s young son, and Sherlock learns just as much from Jon as he does his instructor. He learns that other children can be kind. That someone who isn't mother can like him, can want to play with him. That they can laugh with Sherlock rather than at him; can think him brilliant and funny for simply being him. Sherlock learns that his heart can grow under the influence of another, and that it can slowly start to belong to someone other than him, as well.</p><p>And later, when he is older, Jon will teach him that not only can his heart become another’s, but that he wants to keep someone else’s, too.</p><p>This is the story of two little boys growing up together in Hellenistic Athens, and an epic friendship of Greek proportions.</p><p> </p><p>**BOOK I IS COMPLETE**</p><p>***now with fanart!!!!***</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Book I, Chapter i

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy these snippets of fluffy childhood before the main event.

**Athens, Greece**

_221 BC_

 

 

Flowers must be sacred.

A young boy of four lay quietly hidden in a field of tall grasses interspersed with acanthus, valerian, and little red and orange flowers whose names he didn’t know. As he lay on the cool, dry earth, rustling grasses tickling his nose, flowers smelling sweetly, he listened to the buzz and hum of bees circling above. His older brother was afraid of bees, but young Sherlock thought they were wonderful. Primarily, he thought bees were excellent creatures because bees made honey. Sherlock loved honey. He thought it was nectar. Like the sort that his mother told him the gods ate. Being a rational little boy, though, soon to not be so little anymore, he reasoned that if honey was nectar, and bees ate pollen to make honey, and flowers made pollen, then flowers must be sacred. Probably bees, too.

Sherlock smiled to himself and watched as a fuzzy, banded bee gracefully landed on a pike of lilac coloured acanthus, whose wide, leafy base he was nearly swallowed up by below. The insect buzzed wings that Sherlock couldn’t even see because they moved so fast, and flitted from petal to petal. Sherlock held his breath and brought his laced fingers up to his chin in excitement while he watched. This one was gathering pollen to take back to the hives his mother kept near their home, which would somehow turn into honey that Sherlock would soon get to eat. His smile grew.

The boy enjoyed the peaceful solitude of the bees and the flowers for another half hour before his brother’s voice called out for him to return home. Sherlock thought about ignoring this and wondered how long it would take for Mycroft to find him. He’d recently gotten very good at hiding. Mycroft had even said so. That sounded quite amusing, and Sherlock probably would’ve done exactly this if his brother hadn’t resorted to admitting that his tutor had arrived early, and that Sherlock needed to come and greet him. At this, Sherlock shot up, heedless of the bees buzzing around him.

“Here I am!” he called eagerly. He didn’t even pause to brush the dirt off his clean clothes (his mother would be angry) and ran, galloped, pounded his bare little feet across the ground with a huge smile on his face. He stopped, cheeks red and chest heaving, to smile up at his brother with shining eyes.

“He’s here already?!”

“That’s what I said was it not?” his brother sighed with a fond expression on his face. He turned a critical eye on the younger boy and rolled them. “Sherlock, you’ve made an absolute mess of yourself. It will not do to meet your tutor in such a state. You’ll have to change.”

Sherlock whined and pulled at the folds of brother’s own pristine white chiton. “Must I?”

“You must. Come along.” His brother turned and led the way back to their estate, with Sherlock trailing at his feet like a besotted mongrel pup. “You’re in luck,” Mycroft continued. “Your tutor has brought his son along.”

Sherlock’s steps faltered and he looked up to his older brother. “He has a son?”

Mycroft nodded and stepped around a thistle, taking care to make sure that Sherlock did as well. “Yes. Apparently, the boy’s mother is in ill health and he was forced to bring him along. He’s about your age. Possibly a year older.”

Sherlock thought about this, and jogged to his brother’s side. “Will he be staying here, too?”

“Of course. It is an inconvenience, but apparently he wrote father before they left, so as to be prepared.”

A heavy feeling settled in Sherlock’s stomach as they neared their villa, wondering at this new information. He hadn’t planned on a new boy coming to live with them. He bit his lip and frowned. Most of the other children he’d met didn’t like Sherlock. Sherlock had only been expecting a tutor to teach him everything there was to know so he would be as smart as Mycroft, and then he would grow up to be a wise and powerful man like father. He would have his own villa like his family's, and would keep bees and flowers just like mother. Would the new boy even like bees?

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into the softened eyes of his brother. “He seems friendly. Try to make an effort, and I’m sure you’ll get on just fine.”

Sherlock swallowed and nodded. He then shrugged his brother’s hand off because, while it felt warm and safe, he wasn’t a baby anymore. He scoffed.

“I hope he isn’t stupid.” He lifted his chin and affected the air of the high-born as he’d so often seen his brother do.

Mycroft smirked and followed. “He’s the son of a well-respected philosopher. The odds are favourable.”

 

Sherlock’s new tutor, Philomenes, was a shortish man, with a kind but very wrinkled face, white tufts of hair poked out at his temples, and wore a deep crimson tunic with a golden zone around his waist. His body was tanned, and his sandals were worn but made of excellent quality. The sort his grandfather had worn, Sherlock recalled. His bright blue eyes shone when he stepped forward to introduce himself. Sherlock took a deep breath and likewise stepped forward to take the older man’s warm hand in greeting. Behind him, his father, Septimius, mother, Alcestis, and Mycroft smiled.

Philomenes asked Sherlock several questions about what sorts of subjects interested him the most (mathematics, physics, the biological sciences – though, he said he didn’t really know much about them yet, but rather suspected they were his favourites. Mycroft had actually snorted before clearing his throat in apology.) Sherlock felt very big discussing such important matters, but his eyes kept straying to the other figure in the room. Behind Philomenes, in a chitonisko that seemed a bit too large for his frame, was a boy about Sherlock’s age with closely shorn golden hair, blue eyes like his tutor, and who stood very still, preferring to stay half hidden.

Philomenes turned and held a hand out to the boy, who stepped forward. His eyes darted from Sherlock’s father, to his mother, brother, and finally to him. He offered a shy smile and briefly bowed to Sherlock. Sherlock blinked in surprise. Should he bow, too? He did. Just to be safe. The adults chuckled around them to both boys’ consternation.

“Sherlock, I would like you to meet my son, Jon. Jon, this is Sherlock.” The boys nodded at each other, and Sherlock attempted a half-smile in return that looked more like a grimace. Jon bit his lip to stop from smiling wider. Sherlock frowned.

“Boys,” said Alcestis, and held a hand out towards them. “Come into the kitchen and have some honeycake.” Sherlock’s eyes widened in excitement, nearly ran to his mother because those were his favourite! He only just stopped himself, though, remembering what Mycroft had said about acting respectable. He carefully measured his steps towards his mother, and when he glanced to see if Jon was following, jumped as the boy was right at his back.

“Hello,” Jon said with his shy smile again. Sherlock swallowed and edged closer to his mother.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” she admonished. Sherlock pouted, but replied with his own hello (they’d already done that earlier hadn’t they?) and quickly followed his mother away down the hall towards their bright, sunny kitchen and the promise of honeycakes.

They each sat at a low stone table with cups of fresh, cool water, while Alcestis flitted about the pantry. Jon continued to smile at him.

“What?” Sherlock asked, feeling self-conscious. He automatically scrubbed at his nose in case he had dirt on it.

Jon shrugged. “Nothing.”

Sherlock frowned again. “You smile a lot.”

Jon giggled. “Father says smiling is good for the soul.”

Sherlock thought about this and decided to remember it in case Philomenes ever asked what Sherlock knew about souls or smiling. “Hmm.”

Alcestis set a generous portion of the sweet cake before the boys and ruffled their hair. “Why don’t you two talk for a bit and get to know each other while your father and I discuss your courses with Philomenes?”

She swept away leaving them alone, and Jon waited politely for Sherlock to take the first bite. He was a guest in their home after all. Sherlock immediately tucked in now that the adults were away. Jon grinned and did likewise.

They ate quietly, with Jon’s curious eyes sliding over every surface in the kitchen, from the open window where herbs his mother grew sat on the sill, to the jars of oils and hanging racks of dried meats, to Sherlock. Sherlock simply watched Jon.

“Will you be going to lessons with me?”

Jon nodded quickly. “Oh, yes. Father says I’m to study with you.” Sherlock frowned and considered this. Jon’s shoulders slumped. “Is that bad?”

Sherlock blinked and looked up into the wary face of the new boy. “I don’t know.”

Jon bit his lip and slowly nodded as if confused. Sherlock set down his cake and looked at Jon very seriously. “Do you like bees?”

Jon cocked his head and then looked to his cake. “Bees helped make this didn’t they?”

Sherlock nodded.

Jon smiled “Then yes. I do.”

The little boy with dark curls felt his chest warm and a big smile stretch his lips. “Good. It will be just fine for you to study with me, then.”

“Good!” exclaimed Jon happily, and took a large bite of his cake, smearing honey and oats on his chin. Sherlock huffed at Jon’s attempt to wipe it away, which only made more of a mess. Sherlock rolled his eyes but giggled. Perhaps this Jon really wasn’t mean like all the others.

 

-*- ἀγάπη -*-

 

Every morning, Sherlock woke for his lessons with Philomenes and Jon. It was quickly apparent that Jon had quite a bit of a head start on young Sherlock because he’d grown up with Philomenes' teachings every day. Sherlock was immediately resentful, but it took no time at all before he caught up to Jon’s level. It was also apparent that Sherlock was an excellent pupil who actually far outstripped young Jon intellectually, and Philomenes altered his courses for the differing speeds accordingly. That wasn’t to say that Jon wasn’t bright, quite the contrary, but Sherlock soaked up information like an eager little sponge, and his thirst for knowledge and constant litanies of ' _But why_?' and ' _How?_ ' and ' _Is that all?_ ' became both a source of irritation and fond exasperation for Jon. Each day, Sherlock expected Jon to get angry because of his questions and declare him a swot like the other children had last Spring before Jon came, but he never did. In fact, he seemed to enjoy when Sherlock asked questions because he got to learn more, too.

At midday, the boys were given lunch and free time to play or explore. Usually their free time was something the boys equally looked forward to. Jon was… fun. He laughed freely, he always invited Sherlock to join him, and Sherlock found that he’d made a friend. His very first friend. In no time at all, the boys had bonded and when they weren’t doing their numbers, or lines, or drawings, they could be found huddled together over the bodies of captured frogs, or studying tree sap, spying on servants, climbing trees, or playing soldiers. Sherlock, to his parents’ delight, blossomed into a much friendlier, open child who smiled more than they had ever seen in his whole, young life. It was true that they had had trepidations about Jon’s sudden inclusion into the household, but considering the effect he had on their son, he was welcomed whole-heartedly into the family.

 

On the weekends, Sherlock would knock on the door to the little guest house where Philomenes and Jon lived on his family’s grounds in the valley, and he and Jon would take off all day to play in the fields, or cause the servants a considerable amount of trouble over the messes they made (usually Sherlock’s fault.) One afternoon, Mycroft had promised to take them fishing, and Sherlock showed up with two, very long reed poles, barely able to carry them, and Jon had laughed, taking one from his grip. Jon was a few inches taller than Sherlock anyway.

“Worms?”

Sherlock shook his fluffy head. “Mycroft said we’ll get them at the river. Let’s go.”

They trekked, laughing in the sunshine, to where Mycroft waited at the river’s edge, his own line already cast. He gestured to a spot of wet earth several feet off, and the boys lay their poles down and began to dig for their bait. Jon found his first, but wasted it by flinging the slimy creature at Sherlock’s face. Sherlock had squealed and retaliated by throwing wet mud at Jon, and soon a mud fight of epic proportions was under way.

“Boys! You’re scaring the fish away.” Mycroft had snapped.

In reply, Sherlock threw a clod of mud that landed on his big brother's clean tunic. Jon clapped his hands over his mouth to muffle his giggles, and Sherlock smirked triumphantly with smears of mud upon his cheek. It was one of his very favourite days.

 

-*- ἀγάπη -*-

 

As the boys grew, their studies, naturally, became more and more sophisticated. Lessons were longer, playtime grew shorter, and physical games were introduced. Sherlock was six when they were introduced to sport.

“The noble art of wrestling is a Greek tradition that goes back hundreds of years,” Philomenes had said one afternoon while marking out a pitch with white stones. “The careful control of the body and its functions, the practical application of tactical planning encourages the mind and primes the soldier for battles he will one day fight. While not everyone is destined to fight bravely in battle,” his eyes crinkled fondly at his son, whose chest swelled in excitement, (Sherlock frowned) “the ability to connect by means of the basest form of competition is admirable.”

Philomenes dusted off his hands and admired his squared out pitch. “Now boys, today we are going to learn basic moves for grappling and holds. Jon, you come and stand here,” he placed the fair-haired boy thusly, “and Sherlock, you come here, yes. Good. Now, first the basics. Lesson One.”

And so they went for the entire afternoon, the rules of wrestling, proper stance, what was considered cheating (mainly for Sherlock’s benefit, though he always asked ‘ _Why?’_ afterwards) and then there was the exercise regimen laid out in detail that they were to begin the following day. Sherlock had had his doubts, and said so.

“Conditioning the body and keeping it healthy and agile is just as important as conditioning the mind.”

“Well, I’m ready!” Jon shouted, still buzzing with excitement. He growled and tackled Sherlock to the ground, already putting into practise the skills he’d learned earlier by quickly getting Sherlock into a headlock. Sherlock pulled at his arms, squirmed and kicked, but could not get himself free of Jon’s strong grip. It also stung his pride a bit at the way Jon laughed at him. He could feel Jon's warm breath across his reddened face while he continued to struggle, but it was no use.

He stilled with a pout. “Let go, Jon!”

Philomenes chuckled. “That’s enough, Jon. I’ve no doubt you’ll make a fine athlete.”

“Am I going to be a solider, father?” Jon asked, releasing Sherlock with a cheeky grin.

Sherlock brushed his hands over his dark curls to flatten them, and glared at Jon. Jon stuck out his tongue.

Philomenes arched a brow. “Soldiers do not stick out their tongues, young man.”

Jon blushed. “Yes, father.”

Sherlock smirked, and groaned gratefully when Philomenes called an end to the day’s lessons. They traipsed their way back to the villa, where his mother rolled her eyes at the dusty, scraped-kneed pair of boys with filthy tunics, and bundled them off to the large copper tub for a bath.

The boys splashed about, giggling, and at one point Jon tried again to get another headlock on his friend, who was able to get free this time with the help of his slippery body, and crowed in triumph. Sherlock tried to get Jon in a return lock, but failed almost instantly, coming up spluttering after Jon dunked him easily under the water.

“When I’m as big as you, we’ll see who’s stronger then,” he grumbled, tossing a cloth at Jon’s face with a wet plop.

“We _will_ see,” Jon huffed. “I’m going to be a soldier, and you’re going to be a philosopher, so I’ll probably always be stronger than you.”

Sherlock leaned back against the tub, still for a moment. “Are you really going to be a soldier?”

Jon nodded and lathered soap through his hair.

“But, you’ll have to fight in wars.”

Jon grinned, then plugged his nose and disappeared under the water in a copious amount of bubbles. Sherlock’s frown deepened. People got hurt in wars. People died in battles.

Jon came back up, rubbing his eyes. “I’ll be fierce like Achilles!” He jabbed his arm as if wielding a blade and swung it at Sherlock. “Or maybe Ajax.” He then brought his fists down to splash an imaginary hammer at the water, slopping some over the side.

Sherlock grabbed his wrists to stop his violent slashing. “But, what if you get hurt?”

Jon blinked and pursed his lips. “Well,” he reasoned, “I’ll just have to be faster than everyone else so I don’t.”

Sherlock shoved his arms away and wriggled in the tub, his hands patting along the bottom to feel for the lye soap Jon had dropped. “You can’t be faster than arrows, Jon.”

Jon shrugged. “Father says death in battle can be glorious. Heroes who die in battle are rewarded by the gods in the afterlife.”

Sherlock felt a prickling at the back of his eyes, and fiercely scrubbed at his dripping curls with soaped up fingers. He swallowed thickly at the image of his friend dying in battle, with blood splattered over his face, his eyes open and unseeing like the dead calf they had found last month that wolves had attacked.

He didn’t ever want his friend to die.

 

That night, they lay in Sherlock’s bed, freshly scrubbed, fed, and played with tiny bronze soldiers, lining them up like Philomenes had shown them last week in an organised battalion of warriors. Jon made enthusiastic noises and took great pleasure in knocking over Sherlock’s row of hoplites, declaring himself King. Sherlock rolled his eyes and said it was _his_ house, so he got to be King. Jon narrowed his eyes and crouched down on his heels, preparing to spring. Sherlock scrambled up onto his knees, bracing himself.

“The strongest shall be King, then.” Jon cried out and sprang an attack against Sherlock, who yelped and struggled underneath his friend. He grunted and fisted Jon’s sleeping shirt, twisting to flip him and actually succeeded. He was so shocked that he threw his arms in the air, declaring himself the champion, before Jon took advantage and flipped him back over, pinning him with his hands on his wrists.

“ _‘Never let pride override sense,’_ Sherlock,” Jon quoted at him.

Sherlock pouted.

Eventually, they fell asleep in Sherlock’s bed with their toy soldiers scattered in the sheets, and moonlight falling across their faces.

 

The next morning, they did not have lessons, so they got to sleep in before the morning meal. Sleepy-eyed, and rumpled, the boys shuffled to the dining room, where Alcestis kissed the tops of their heads, and sat down plates of eggs, brown breads and honey. Every time she kissed Jon, he would blush and look up at her with complete adoration. Sherlock wondered if Jon's mother had ever given him kisses.

Afterwards, they were shooed outside to enjoy the weather, and Sherlock asked a question he'd always wanted the answer to.

“How come you never see your mother?” Sherlock asked whilst lying on his back, stretched out in the grass with his friend beside him. He was also observing the different kinds of clouds in the sky. He wanted to know why they changed around.

Jon scratched his nose and sighed.

“Jon?” Sherlock turned his head to peer at his friend. Jon’s mouth pulled down in a sad line.

“Father says she’s not well. He says she can’t have visitors right now.”

Sherlock stared at his friend with his wide, pale blue eyes. He tried to imagine how he would feel if father told him he couldn’t see mother. It would be awful. Sherlock stretched out a summer-tanned hand towards his friend and looped his fingers in Jon’s. “I’m sorry.”

Jon squeezed back.

 

Months later, when word was eventually sent that Jon’s mother had grown worse, Philomenes took Jon away for three weeks. Sherlock had been miserably bored and lonely. He asked his mother about death, and then felt even more miserable because Jon was probably sad.

When Philomenes and Jon returned, each bore twin expressions of strain and grief. Philomenes had new lines around his eyes, while Jon’s eyes were red and glassy. Alcestis had immediately gone to Jon and wrapped him in her arms, murmuring quietly, and led him away towards the kitchen. Septimius walked with Philomenes to his and Jon’s little house and stayed with him until dark.

That night, Jon cried on Sherlock’s shoulders until he fell asleep, huddled up against his chest, fists clenching Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock’s heart ached for his friend, and he decided that he never wanted Jon to be sad again. Sherlock did like his mother and wrapped his smaller arms around Jon’s shoulders and squeezed. He stayed awake all night just in case Jon needed him.

 

-*- ἀγάπη -*-

 

  

These beautiful images on this _paper c_ alyx krater were all created by the insanely talented [TheGayDivorcee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thegaydivorcee). 

More images throughout the story. Also, please leave some love because wow!!!

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so, I came *this* close to going with the Greek spelling of Serlok, and Mycroft was almost called Mydon. If these were shorter stories I would've kept that. But considering I have plans to make this into three books, it's a bit irritating to keep remembering. Oddly enough, I have no problems with typing Jon. Probably because it sounds the same. While 'Serlok' is pleasing, there is something very satisfying in saying the word, "Sherlock." I couldn't bear to take that away from John.
> 
> Also, please note that this work is unbeta'd, and while I've done a significant amount of research, if you're more knowledgeable than me and see that I've committed a grave error somewhere, please feel free to let me know.
> 
> Happy reading!


	2. Book I, Chapter ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys grow older. Also fluff.

It was the harvest, and the markets in the city were full to bursting. Or, that’s what Sherlock’s father had said.

Sherlock, himself, was a ball of anxious, twitching energy where he sat beside Jon in his father’s cart, feet dangling over the edge. Their sandals occasionally scraped the dusty roads when they crested hills, or dropped into dips, and Jon would take the opportunity to kick pebbles at Sherlock’s shins. His mother turned around to scold them.

“You will fall out if you don’t settle. Jon, hold tight to him.”

Jon sighed, but linked his arm through his friend’s. They were going into Athens for the day. It had been quite a few months since father had brought him along, though Mycroft got to go much more often because he was older. It wasn’t fair.

“Will there be soldiers?” Jon asked again for the fifteenth time. It had been years, but he still hadn’t stopped talking about his future profession, much to Sherlock’s dismay. Jon had scrubbed his face pink that morning and wore his best tunic. His father had even given him a few coins for the occasion as Jon rarely got to see the city either. They were both terribly excited.

“Probably.”

Alcestis turned again sharply. “You are neither of you to run off. Again.” She narrowed her eyes as the boys seemed to twitch even more under the weight of her admonishments. She sighed and rubbed at her temples. Beside her, Septimius chuckled.

When they arrived, father settled their cart and agreed to meet them later for the midday meal in the forum as he had business to attend to that morning. Mycroft was to accompany him, and did so with great pomp and flair, waving an imperious hand at the boys who trailed along Alcestis’ heels towards the marketplace. What did either of them care for business when all of Athens and her curiosities awaited? Alcestis was quick to grab a handful of cloth near each boy’s shoulders.

“Be careful,” she urged, but her eyes were likewise scanning the crowds around them with avid interest. First, they would browse the cloth makers, then visit the spice stalls, followed by the butchers. They usually butchered their own meats, but it was always worthwhile to peruse something special. Mycroft’s birth celebration was approaching.

Sherlock, despite nearly vibrating with energy every time they travelled to Athens, would usually go oddly quiet. His wide, pale eyes would dart to every surface; a grin hovering on his thick lips. He would open his mouth to exclaim curiously at some thing, or one, before inevitably cutting himself off having worked out the answer to his unasked questions. Jon, meanwhile, touched _everything_. Asked about _everything_ , and when Sherlock wasn’t deep in thought or distraction, would rattle off explanations for him. And if he didn’t, Alcestis would.

Jon kept a hand on the pouch of coins his father had given him, and when they passed by a merchant selling armour, swords, daggers and leathers, he froze in place with wide-eyed admiration. There, on display, was a lovely silver dagger, with a beautifully-carved ivory handle, glinting in the midday sun. His fingers bunched together, itching to touch.

“Ah, the young lad has a fine eye,” the merchant remarked, picking up the blade, wiping it along his tunic. He held it out to Jon for a closer look. Jon licked his lips and tentatively reached towards it. The man snatched it away with a gleam in his eye. “Ah, ah. It is very sharp.”

Jon bristled. “I’ve held a blade before.”

Sherlock edged up close, peering at the unique little dagger with curiosity. Jon clutched covetously at his leather purse.

“It looks to be a fine dagger. Is it a fine price, I wonder?” Alcestis’ calm voice asked from behind their shoulders.

“Very fine, very fine. The ivory you see comes from beasts of _Āryāvarta_ , with tusks like trees that can fell a whole village in minutes.” Jon and Sherlock crept closer, eyes widening ever further. “The silver is said to come from Alexander’s own hoard.” Sherlock’s breath hitched. “For a blade such as this, I would take no less than twenty drachmas.” Jon’s chest deflated, even as Sherlock’s sense of justice balked. Behind them, his mother scoffed loudly.

“Twenty!”

“Perhaps you have something you’d be willing to trade?”

“Not for twenty and this piece of silver,” she laughed, dismissing the blade carelessly. “Come along, boys.”

Jon didn’t budge. He loosened the strings of his purse and dug around its contents.

“Jon,” Alcestis soothed, reaching a delicate hand out to him. “Your father would fairly thrash you.” Sherlock had no doubt that was true, but he also recognized that look in his friend’s eye. He reached for the purse tied to his own belt.

“Sherlock! Absolutely not. Both of you now, come along.” Alcestis tugged, and Jon all but whimpered with bright eyes that tugged at Sherlock’s heart. Twenty drachmas. It was robbery. Perhaps if the blade were gold such a price would be warranted. But then, what good was a golden blade? “We can find something much better than that, I’m sure.” Alcestis murmured.

She drug them away, and Sherlock tried not to wince at the expression of utter devastation upon his friend’s face. Sherlock resolved to distract him. The second his mother was preoccupied, he’d already made a plan to sneak away. He knew roughly where they were to meet father for their meal at any rate, and though he figured they would get the beating of a lifetime, he’d never get to see anything with her fussing at their backs.

Sherlock surreptitiously took a handful of Jon’s tunic in his palm, ready to bolt at the first sign of distraction, and fortunately, a tent full of exotic, brightly coloured silks from the East suitably ensnared his mother’s attention. Sherlock tugged, quickly getting he and Jon lost in a mix of bodies going to and fro. Jon gasped in surprise, grabbing Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock grinned, setting off for a dark alley they’d passed not two minutes before. He’d seen where it had wound behind a large building at the last corner they'd past and made for it. They raced over uneven cobbles, ducking and dodging through indignant Athenians, until the entrance to the alley loomed ahead. Sherlock, chest heaving with adrenaline, and panting for air with a smirk on his face, pulled Jon inside but did not stop.

They jumped over piles of rubbish, just barely avoiding a few huddled lumps of what he assumed were some of Athens’ many homeless, and rounded the corner to see the sunlit exit on the other side of the stone building it ringed. It emptied into an even busier thoroughfare, and Sherlock was certain there was an interesting looking apothecary’s shop he’d seen a ways back, and was itching to take a look.

“We are going to be in so much trouble,” Jon breathed beside him, wiping a sweaty brow with his free hand. Sherlock huffed and nodded, but noted Jon’s amused expression. Jon liked to pretend he was Sherlock’s conscience, but really, he was usually just as excited, if not more so than Sherlock, to do something against the rules when the opportunity presented itself.

They edged to the side of the building, Jon belatedly dropping Sherlock’s hand, but stayed close, careful to avoid the flow of traffic. Sherlock couldn’t keep the grin off his face, and his eyes scanned the shops lining each side of the street. He spotted the apothecary and tugged Jon’s wrist. “This way.”

They weaved a trail across the lane, and carefully entered the quieter shop. To their mutual delight, there were rows and rows of jars, pots, and vessels filled with liquids, powders, minerals, and dried herbs. It smelled very strongly of an almost-unpleasant mix of foreign and familiar scents. _Fascinating_. A woman entered, and Jon and Sherlock kept to an aisle alone, but Sherlock strained his ears to listen to the old man who owned the shop as he answered questions about her ailment. He was describing some kind of poultice that Sherlock had never heard of, and he made a note in his head to look it up later in Philomenes’ medical scrolls.

Beside him, he felt Jon stiffen and quietly gasp. He turned to find Jon staring at a small basket filled with dozens of lapis lazuli. He blinked. Jon leaned in closer and ran his fingers over the rough, small, blue stones. It was probably the most expensive thing either of them had seen gathered in one place.

“What are you two doing?” a gruff voice sounded to the left. Both boys jumped guiltily.

“Nothing,” Sherlock snapped, standing to his full height. “Admiring your wares.” Jon squared his shoulders beside him and put his hands to his side, palms flat.

“Admiring or stealing?” The old man quickly advanced on them, keeping one eye on his basket of lapis, and one eye on their hands.

“We are not thieves,” Jon replied, frowning.

“Unless you’re intending to buy or enquire, then you’d best be on your way.”

Enquire? But there were hundreds of things Sherlock could enquire about! Sherlock opened his mouth, eager to begin firing off questions, when Jon tugged him sharply.

“No, no,” he groaned, “we were just leaving.”

Sherlock spun around with pleading eyes. “But, Jon! We haven’t even seen the other wall yet!”

“Later,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, and pulled him back out into the lane.

Sherlock pulled away and glared. “We have at least another hour before we need to meet father.”

Jon shrugged and looked in both directions. “Well then, all the more reason to get a move on to the next place.” He turned with a wide smile. “Let’s find the armoury!”

It was Sherlock’s turn to groan, “Later.” Sighing back at the shop, he turned towards the heart of the city, with Jon following, and they’d peered into every interesting looking shop, nook, and cranny for the better part of an hour before Sherlock started herding them towards where their family would meet. Assuming father hadn’t formed a search party, rather. He cringed. Mother was certainly going to murder them, but swept up as they were in the hustle and bustle of Athens' denizens, he found he hadn’t much strength to care.

As expected, the day had proved highly eventful. The sheer amounts of people, of different people, from all walks of life, were enough to keep Sherlock distracted for weeks.

 

They had just rounded a corner, enticed by the delicious smells of roasted lamb, when they smacked into a gigantic hulk of a man moving in the opposite direction. They stumbled and the man snarled.

“Watch where you’re going!”

“Sorry,” Jon mumbled, circling past him. Sherlock eyed the man warily, and followed after Jon. The man shuffled off down the cobbled lane, reeking of poor wine and sweat, and some other earthy musk that wasn’t any kind of pleasant. He was just about to head for an archway that led to the piazza a few metres up, when the sound of moans and feminine gasps, and Jon’s hand on his chest, stopped him in his tracks. Jon’s eyes had gone uncharacteristically wide, and his mouth was hanging open while staring down the alley to their left. Sherlock turned and likewise gaped. A prostitute was pressed against a grimy wall, with her legs wrapped around the hips of a man whose tunic was rucked up, exposing his arse. He was panting into her shoulder and she was arching her neck, murmuring gibberish. Her fingers dug into his well-shaped shoulders and Sherlock felt his face heat with embarrassment. So. That’s what sex looked like. He wrinkled his nose.

“Are they….”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed. “Let’s go.”

“Wait,” Jon pulled again on his tunic. He scrunched his brow and cocked his head. “How is she…” he abruptly blinked and shook his head. “Oh.” He looked to the ground and bit his lip in thought. Sherlock shuffled on his feet while the whore’s moans grew particularly loud, and the man groaned and shuddered.

“Can we _go_?” Sherlock snapped. His eyes flicked once more to the man’s exposed arse before his dingy tunic slid down, along with her legs. His chest felt warm, and in all honesty, he felt incredibly uneasy.

Jon resolutely turned and nodded once. "I am hungry. Where are we going?”

Sherlock chuckled, thankful for the change of subject, and gestured toward the archway leading to most of the food stalls in the better part of the forum. “Through there.”

They had one more moment more of peace before spotting a frantic Alcestis, who first clutched them to her chest, peppering their faces in kisses, and then smacked them soundly about the ears, berating their childishness.

Sherlock considered the wealth of knowledge gained from their adventure worth the beating.

 

Later that day as they started to leave for the return journey home, Sherlock’s father was fastening the straps to their oxen, when Sherlock heard two men speaking in a language that wasn’t Greek. He jumped back down from the cart and wandered towards it. Moments later, two men emerged from an alley with heads shaved so cleanly their crowns gleamed in the fading sun. They wore garments that left their tanned chests bare, and gold belts encircled their waists. Thick, black paint ringed their eyes, and they stopped, startled, to gaze at the boy who was starting at them so unabashedly. The younger of the two quirked a curious grin and spoke something to Sherlock he couldn’t understand. He gestured to Sherlock’s pale eyes, and bent forward to get a closer look. Sherlock leaned forward, intrigued. He glanced to the texts they held in their arms, to the circlets at their waists, and back to the black eye paint. Why was there paint around their eyes? Why had they shaved their heads? Were they some sort of warrior? No, they had academic materials. Warriors did not read.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked and turned at his father’s stern voice. Septimius murmured something in the same tongue as the two men who were still staring at Sherlock in amusement, to which they nodded and replied. Sherlock gazed at his father, surprised.

The men went on their way, and Septimius walked forward, studying his son. “Egyptian,” he said.

Sherlock whipped back around to stare after the men who were rounding a corner, out of site. Egpytians! Fascinating! His father’s much larger hand settled across his back, urging him towards their cart.

“You can borrow texts when we get home, but first, we must _get_ home. Come.”

When he settled back into the cart, Jon shuffled forward, grinning, and whispered, “Egyptians? Of course you would find Egyptians.”

Sherlock grinned. Athens was _wonderful_.

 

-*- ἀγάπη -*-

 

As the years wore on, their academic interests split. Sherlock had taken to thoroughly studying physics and biology, and practised his newfound knowledge every day after lessons with experiments on animals, and contraptions he built to test angles and trajectories. He was quickly gaining a reputation for being particularly intelligent, and for all his occasional moodiness, excelled at reading people and deducing their activities. To most, it was unnerving. Jon thought it brilliant. When Jon could persuade him to leave his room, or the barn where he did his more, ah, explosive experiments, they were likely to be found testing other theories of questionable intent. As a result, Sherlock often ended up wounded, so Jon always made sure to be with him. It was probably then to be expected that Jon swiftly took an interest in medicine.

“Because, someone needs to make sure Sherlock gets patched up when he falls out of trees,” Jon had replied to his father’s curiosity in his new field of interest. Philomenes smiled softly at his son and ran a hand across his sun-whitened locks.

Likewise, Jon kept up his studies in weaponry and the soldierly arts, because, among other things, Sherlock got into trouble. Though, to be fair, so did Jon. And Sherlock was almost always making someone angry, but usually not on purpose. It just happened. Jon got in trouble because he simply enjoyed the things most people had an instinct to avoid.

Where one’s strengths lacked, the other was strong. Sometimes literally. For example, there was a boy whose family’s land bordered Septimius’, and he loathed Sherlock with a passion. It happened one afternoon after a group lesson with a visiting scholar, that Sherlock had once told the boy, Androcles, that he had a brain the size of a rat. Androcles had hit him in the mouth, splitting his lip open. Retaliation was swift, and Jon had immediately tackled him, biting at his ear until the older boy started crying. They had both gotten yelled at, and as punishment, were denied their midday breaks for a whole week. Though, Jon got to assist while his father dabbed at Sherlock’s lip with an ointment he helped to prepare. This prompted an entire two months’ worth of lessons about herbs and medicines. Both thought that attacking Androcles hadn’t turned out to be such a bad idea at all, in the end.

 

-*- ἀγάπη -*-

 

As far as other friendships and acquaintances went, the only real exposure to their peers growing up came from the occasional festival or travelling scholar. If the latter, neighbouring families would group their sons for lessons to take advantage, which, for the most part, the children enjoyed. Of course, that meant that their appointed nemesis, Androcles, was usually in attendance, but there were other children whose company Jon at least liked. Sherlock considered it an exercise in studying dull people’s habits and reactions. Jon rolled his eyes frequently.

One week, there was a man, a mathematician from the Pythagorean order near Croton, who was invited to lecture, and Sherlock had been so eager to meet him that he’d dragged a protesting Jon from bed early, every morning, while he was visiting. A few of the other boys were excited to have the foreigner teaching them as well, but most simply suffered through lectures over numbers and mathematical philosophies at the behest of their elders. Jon included.

During the midday break, the boys would usually practise sparring and indulge in general horsing around, enjoying the break in their usual schedules, though Sherlock and the littlest ones abstained. On the third day of Sherlock ignoring them in favour of asking more questions of their temporary tutor, Androcles’ older cousin, Alcaeus, cornered Sherlock, taunting him about being the odd one out. Sherlock’s typical reaction when being teased was to casually mouth off some obvious defect in the offender’s personality, which had always brought him trouble, and Alcaeus, like his cousin, responded with his fists. The first blow to his jaw actually stunned him with its intensity, and Sherlock quickly found himself on his back, blinking through spots in his eyes, as pain bloomed bright and deep in his skull. He shook his head, but before he could get his bearings, the massive older boy had flung himself down onto Sherlock’s chest and grabbed two fistfuls of hair to pound his head into the ground.

Sherlock kicked at any and every inch of Alcaeus he could, irritated at having been caught off guard, and clawed at the boys arms while his brain rattled back and forth. Then, almost as soon as it started, Alcaeus stopped with a yelp because a very furious Jon was slamming the boy onto the ground. Jon’s fists were pounding into Alcaeus’ face, and the boy cried out in shock.

Sherlock sat up and watched in amazement as Jon scrabbled back and forth, trying to gain the upper hand with his speed and dexterity. Grass and earth stuck to the blood trickling down Jon’s cheek from a gash on his brow, but when Alcaeus wrapped his thick fingers about Jon’s neck, Sherlock finally propelled into action, reaching for a nearby fallen branch. He swung hard and cracked the wooden limb over the other boy’s back and shoulder, sending him flying. Jon sat up, gasping, eyes leaking and red from lack of air, and goggled at the boy who had choked him. It was incredibly low-handed. Sherlock stared down at the cretin with pure hatred, and reached out a hand to help Jon up.

Alcaeus recovered to clumsily launched himself at the pair, but Jon was ready, and landed a blow to his left temple, sending the other boy once more to the ground, moaning and holding his head.

Jon stood over him, dripping blood, and spat. “Do not  _ever_ touch him again.”

Sherlock’s heart thudded loudly and he swallowed at the raw intensity poring off of Jon in waves. He tugged on his arm and pulled him away in case the idiot said something further to provoke Jon.

Behind them, the other boys stood around gaping in shock, and backed away when Sherlock led him to a nearby creek to wash up.

To Jon’s credit, none of them ever troubled Sherlock again.

 

-*- ἀγάπη -*-

 

When they were nine and ten, Jon burst into Sherlock’s room, positively breathless, eyes alight, and cheeks red. He smelled of sweat and dusty roads, and collapsed onto Sherlock’s down-filled bed with the ease of familiarity born of years’ repetition. Sherlock pushed away from his desk and raised his brows in inquiry. In his hands, he held a magnification glass, and twirled it impatiently.

Jon held up his hand to stall him while he caught his breath. He’d gotten to go out into the city earlier with his father, and Sherlock had had to stay home because he’d ruined his mother’s favourite silk peplos. Sherlock had needed to test differing fabrics to see how they affected drag on objects dropped from various heights. The garment may have gotten ruined in the process.

“You’ll never guess,” Jon wheezed, laughing from the bed, “what I heard,” he paused, “and _saw_ ,” he screeched, “in the Agora today.”

Sherlock turned his chair around and leaned forward. “Go on.” He was dying for something of interest to distract him.

Jon sat up with a very serious expression on his face. “Someone has offered for Mycroft.”

Sherlock sat motionless and blinked.

Jon’s eyes widened and he flapped his hands. “Offered. As a _mentor_!” Jon promptly fell over laughing again, clutching at his sides.

Sherlock’s jaw fell open. “No,” he breathed. He looked to the floor, and then back to Jon who was streaming tears of mirth. “Who?! Who on earth would be interested in _him_?”

Jon wiped his cheeks and lay on his side shaking with chuckles. “Some wealthy politician. Um,” Jon screwed his eyes up in thought, “something that sounded like  'ceb… rion’ maybe,” he shrugged. “Someone old.”

Sherlock crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. He knew he should be somewhat pleased for his brother, who, at sixteen was nearing an age when he would no longer be eligible for paiderastia, but at the same time, the idea was somewhat repulsive. He shuddered.

“I will _never_ be chosen,” he said solemnly and crossed to sit next to Jon on his bed. Jon rolled over and peered up at his friend.

“Of course you will. Everyone probably wants one of Septimius’ sons.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And besides, you’re _so beautiful,_ ” Jon sing-songed in a girlish voice. Sherlock and Jon’s other neighbours had a daughter, Milo, who absolutely fawned over Sherlock and told him at every opportunity how beautiful she thought him.

Sherlock smacked him on the arm and lay down beside him so that their heads were inches apart. “Well, I won’t be taken by anyone. It doesn’t interest me.”

Jon rolled onto his side facing Sherlock. “You really do not want an erastes? How are you going to meet people? And learn, you know, Athenian codes and laws and all that?”

Sherlock sniffed. “I can very well learn that on my own.” Jon snorted. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and grinned. “Besides, Mycroft will learn everything worth knowing and we can just ask him.”

He and Jon erupted into giggles. Jon leaned his head into Sherlock’s shoulder and slowly quieted.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and hummed, trying not to think too much about the sort of things Mycroft would have to do now with his new mentor. Especially since the man was a stranger. And old. He shuddered again.

“When you say you willl never be taken, do you mean, by anyone ever, or by a mentor?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared into the shiny gold of Jon’s hair below his chin. He inhaled and thought for a bit. “Well, I do not want to be with any stranger, unless they only teach me what I want to know, academically.”

Jon nodded. “But,” he paused. “What about, um, love?” The boy kept his voice easy but Sherlock noted the way he had suddenly gone very still.

“Love.” Sherlock parroted.

Jon shrugged. “Yeah. Doesn’t everyone want to be loved?”

Sherlock huffed and rubbed his chin over Jon’s hair. “I am loved. Mother loves me.”

Jon groaned.

“You love me. Don’t you?”

Jon snorted. “Yes, because I am a lunatic.”

Sherlock poked him in the side with a bony finger. “Then who else do I need to love me? They will just get in my way.”

Jon sighed but nestled closer to his friend. “You’re impossible, Sherlock.”

“True. But at least I am interesting.”

“That’s one word.” Jon giggled again and huffed into his friend’s chest. “Mycroft is going to have to… you know.”

Sherlock groaned and pretended to wretch. “Revolting.”

Jon cackled. “Yeah, but he’s still learning how.”

" _Jon!_ " Sherlock squawked. “Are you curious about… that?”

Jon ducked his head to hide a blush. “No.”

Sherlock cocked a brow.

“Well, maybe. It’s something people do.” Jon grimaced. “ _Gods_ , you don’t think father is going to teach us about that one day do you? Ugh."

Sherlock laughed and settled back against his friend, comfortable and warm. His mother often called he and Jon puppies what with the way they huddled and flopped over onto each other. “Well. We can probably ask Mycroft that now, too.”

This set them both off into an enormous fit of giggles that inevitably ended with a round of wrestling that, of course, Jon won. 

 

-*- ἀγάπη -*-

 

Alcestis quietly swept into her son’s room while he finished pinning his finest gold fibula into place at his shoulder. She smiled softly at him and brushed his fringe aside. He patted it back into place with a scowl. She laughed.

“You will be on your best behaviour tonight, won’t you? We are counting on the evening’s success for Mycroft.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, mother.”

“Please no unnecessary questions, and do not badger the poor man.”

“Mother, I am perfectly aware that I’m to be silent all throughout dinner.”

She arched a brow. “Jon has strict orders to haul you away at his discretion.”

Sherlock grinned. They were having guests over for dinner. A peer of father’s from the forum, Hektor, and his grown son were dining with them. The son, a young man of twenty by the name of Cebriones. The long and the short of it was Mycroft was anxious to begin a life of political study in preparation for his future career, and father’s friend was well-placed and his son was quietly searching for an erômenos. Sherlock shuddered at the thought.

At the table, Jon was seated beside him, and it was very obvious he was trying hard not to smile. Sherlock bit back his own grin and flicked Jon’s leg under the table. Mycroft’s sharp eyes narrowed at them from across the table.

Septimius, Hektor, and Philomenes spoke about dull things like politics and trade, while Mycroft and Cebriones made softer, polite conversation to the side. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed his asparagus around on his plate, wondering if he’d be expected to play his lyre after supper. Jon ate happily beside him, but otherwise made no move to speak, just as he and Sherlock had been requested. It was all terribly dull. Sherlock was bored. He elbowed Jon with a raised brow, to which Jon vehemently shook his head. Pity.

Sherlock cleared his throat when there was a natural pause in the conversation; Jon sighed beside him. He addressed Cebriones. “Mycroft says you were one of the youngest in your class to complete officer training.” Sherlock smiled blandly across the table, Jon stared at his chicken, Mycroft glared, and everyone else calmly awaited Cebriones’ response.

The young man with light brown curls smiled politely and inclined his chin. “Mycroft is kind to speak so well of me. I did indeed finish a bit earlier than my peers.” He cast a rakish grin to Mycroft, who, Sherlock knew, pretended to be coy and ducked his head. It was disgusting, really. Sherlock scoffed.

Cebriones continued. “Do you plan to enter the military before politics, Sherlock?”

“Absolutely not. I have no interest in either.”

Philomenes, perhaps feeling a need to defend his student, interjected. “Sherlock is a brilliant mind, suited more to philosophy.”

Cebriones’ oily smile stretched his lips. “Ah yes, a much more passive indulgence. It is the safer course, to be sure.”

Mycroft smirked. “Our Jon here, however, is fully committed to one day serving. He has had aspirations since practically infancy.”

At that, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his insufferable brother, while Jon sat up straighter in his seat. Cebriones focused his gaze to the boy who’d yet to speak. “An admirable goal. What are your strengths?”

Jon blushed but met the man’s eyes. “Swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat.”

“Jon is being modest,” Mycroft added with a grin. “He is a very skilled strategist. Quite knowledgeable in military history, with an additional growing background in medicine. He will be a formidable candidate in no time.”

Fury slowly bubbled hot in Sherlock’s gut with Mycroft’s every word, but Jon fairly glowed under the perceived praise. He flashed a nervous glance to Sherlock and quickly added, “I have not ruled out the medicinal arts as a primary discipline yet.”

“Well, the one can go hand and hand with the other and are valuable skills nevertheless,” Cebriones said with a winning smile. His eyes tracked over Jon slowly, and then flicked to Sherlock with a knowing, smug glint that set his teeth on edge. Sherlock met his gaze.

“Perhaps when Jon is older he can call on you for reference?” Septimius offered, reaching for his glass of wine. Philomenes turned with interest as well, and Cebriones nodded.

“Of course. I should be very interested to follow Jon, and Sherlock’s, careers quite closely. Especially since Mycroft seems like such a promising rising talent, I can only expect his younger relations to be equally gifted and capable.”

Mycroft genuinely flushed, and Sherlock closed his eyes with a soft groan. Jon jabbed him in the side.

Supper passed in much the same fashion as it began, and Sherlock wished something interesting like an earthquake might swallow them up so that he could leave, taking Jon with him. When they were finally excused, he grabbed Jon’s wrist and all but ran from their serving room to the courtyard.

“What are you doing?” Jon hissed, pulling himself free, and looking back to the house. “We should be in there socialising. Your mother wishes it, and I know our fathers do.”

Sherlock scrubbed his hands through his curls. “With Mycroft and that idiot? No, we’re well shot of them. He is a power-hungry sycophant and Mycroft is only well-served in that he can manipulate him given his station. We, however, should have nothing to do with him.”

Jon blinked, frowned. “Cebriones? He seemed perfectly nice enou—”

Sherlock barked a harsh laugh and shook his head. “He was baiting me and winding Mycroft up.” He muttered, “As Mycroft was doing to me.”

Jon crossed his arms. “You can’t just accept that they were paying a compliment or being nice? Must everything have another layer with you?”

Sherlock bit his tongue and stared at the ground. Mycroft knew very well how Sherlock felt about Jon’s continued military aspirations, just as Sherlock knew very well that Cebriones' so-called _interest_ in Jon, or Sherlock, wasn’t professional in the least. “I would prefer to be with you instead. They are going to keep talking about tedious things and I am bored to tears, Jon.” He looked up with a grin. “Let’s go swim.”

Jon stared. “It’s dark out.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Since when do you turn down an adventure?”

Jon chuckled, but when his father briefly appeared at the doorway with a stern glance, he gestured to Sherlock and they went back inside. Though, Sherlock moaned about it the entire time.

 

-*- ἀγάπη -*-

 

Springs turned into harvests, and the golden days of childhood passed as amicably as could be hoped for, with each day bringing more knowledge, sometimes scars, and often smiles. Mycroft moved out of the family home, and then one winter, Philomenes grew very ill. Pneumonia, Jon said. Septimius sent for a physician, and Jon stayed by his side, aided by Alcestis and Sherlock. Every fluid-filled cough made Jon’s lips thin and the lines on his brow deepen while he dabbed a cloth over his father’s fevered flesh. Alcestis sang quietly, murmuring prayers to Aceso and Apollo. Jon slept at his father’s side, and Sherlock slept at Jon’s feet.

When the beloved, old man passed away during Jon’s thirteenth year, he and Sherlock wept. Septimius honoured his friend and son’s tutor with a large banquet and had a pyre constructed per tradition. Sherlock, as ever, never left Jon’s side, and he worried every minute what would become of him. Jon hadn’t inherited anything of value, but being an only son, any and all of Philomenes’ titles and property were passed to him, of which there wasn’t much. He had sold what little land he owned when his wife had passed years back.

Directly after the cremation ceremony, while guests lamented and lay wreaths, Sherlock flew to his father’s study and implored him to take Jon into the family. Sherlock would call him brother if need be. He would give up his bed for Jon and sleep on the floor, which prompted his father to raise his hands for silence. He moved across the room to calm his youngest.

“I have no intention of turning Jon away, and there is no reason for anyone to sleep on floors,” he said with a small smile.

Sherlock exhaled and visibly relaxed. “So, he can stay? With us?”

“Jon will stay to complete his studies with you until he decides what profession he intends to pursue. It was his father’s wish, should your mother and I be agreeable, which, we of course are.”

Sherlock nodded, fighting back the urge to smile, or possibly cry. Septimius rested a heavy palm on his son’s shoulder. “Are your fears allayed?”

Sherlock nodded, avoiding his father’s eyes.

Septimius smiled. “Good. Go now and comfort your friend.”

Sherlock nearly hugged his father in relief, but instead nodded, turned, and sought out Jon. Not that he‘d needed to be told. His light blue eyes tracked amongst the faces of guests milling quietly throughout their home, but didn’t find the one he was looking for. He walked through the kitchen and out the back door, grabbing his himation from the hook, moving towards the ponds separating his mother’s hives, retired for the winter, from the house. When he spotted a familiar silhouette leaning back against an ancient willow, poking a stick into the nearly-frozen surface of the water, something in Sherlock’s chest tightened. He watched the way the glow of a weak sun shimmered on thin ice that illuminated Jon’s face, and Sherlock thought that even though Jon was heart-broken, he was beautiful, too.

Slowly, he approached and eased himself down to sit at Jon’s side on the hard earth. Jon leaned into him and discreetly wiped a tear from his cheek.

Sherlock’s right arm came up to lay across Jon’s shoulder and draw him in closer, and he settled the heavy woollen himation over them both. They sat quietly while Jon tortured the pond with his branch and himself with his thoughts.

“I spoke with father,” Sherlock whispered, unsure why he felt a need to be quiet. As if their normal speaking voices might somehow disrupt something monumentally important.

Jon grunted and stiffened at his side.

“He says you are to stay and complete your studies. Here.”

Jon stopped poking his stick. Sherlock swallowed, suddenly anxious.

“Are you… is that, that’s good, though.”

Jon sniffled. “I am to be a burden on your family.”

Sherlock frowned harder and flicked Jon’s shoulder affectionately. “Don’t be daft. You’re practically their third son.”

Jon coughed around a sob. “Their third, orphaned son?”

Sherlock’s lips thinned. “You are only as orphaned as you feel. And,” Sherlock paused around his suddenly thick tongue for a moment before forging on, “and you will always have me. Can’t be helped.”

Jon laughed and leaned his wet face into Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock pretended to ignore Jon’s soft sobs. “I’m afraid you are doomed to my friendship, Jon. And how unfortunate that mother and father like you so. Whatever shall you do?”

Jon laughed again, his warm breath rolling against Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock smiled. “If you want us, rather.”

Jon wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s chest and pulled him into a crushing hug. “I do.” He sniffed again and added quietly, “I don’t know how I will ever repay their kindness.”

Sherlock huffed. “Honestly, Jon. You keep me out of their hair, I’m sure that’s payment enough.”

Jon looked up with reddened eyes. “It is not a chore, though. It’s fun keeping you out of danger.” He flashed a crooked grin and then lowered his head back to Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock had finally grown taller than Jon, but had only been so for a few months now. It was still novel to be the taller one while hugging.

Sherlock closed his eyes and let the sounds of the willow’s bare branches rustling, the occasional rise of voices filtering out of their home, and the distant, hollow hum of the world lull them into a quiet repose until well after dark.

 

Later, when Sherlock was pulling back the covers, teeth chattering from the cold, there was a tentative knock, before the sound of heavy fabrics brushed along the threshold of his room, followed by the quiet pattering of bare feet against the stone floor. Sherlock looked into the ghostly pale face of his friend in the moonlight.

“It’s um,” Jon looked away and shuffled on his feet. “I can’t.”

Sherlock nodded and tugged on Jon’s wrist before raising the bedclothes for them both to slide under. “Come on, then. It’s freezing.”

Jon exhaled gratefully, and stuck his icy feet under Sherlock’s calves, who yelped in response. “Could you not have covered those with something? They are like ice!”

Jon rolled into his side and slid a palm over Sherlock’s stomach to clasp at his side. “Shut up.”

Sherlock sniffed, but allowed himself to be manhandled because Jon was otherwise very warm, and it really was freezing cold in his chambers. He snuggled further into the warmth burrowing into his side and felt a ridiculous urge to grin into the darkness.

“G’night,” Jon said against his chest.

“Goodnight,” Sherlock whispered.

As Jon lay beside him, Sherlock listened to his breath until it evened out into an exhausted sleep. That was the second time he'd come to him after the loss of a parent and Sherlock swallowed around a lump in his throat. So many sad things had happened to his friend, and it wasn't fair. Jon was the best person he'd ever known, and always gave so much to others. How was it that he, who regularly sent offerings to the gods, especially Apollo, whom everyone praised and liked, how was it that he was plagued with sorrow? Sherlock frowned into the dark.

Jon shifted in his sleep, and Sherlock snuggled his face down into his soft hair, promising he would always be there for his friend. He was Sherlock's to care for now.

 

-*- ἀγάπη -*-

 


	3. Book I, Chapter iii

Their new instructor was, well, his credentials were admirable because Septimius would have nothing less for his sons, but, he very much wasn’t Philomenes, who had always been patient, and had infused so many of their lessons with humour and light-heartedness.

Diodorus was pleasant enough, they supposed, but he lacked a certain… passion. On the plus side, (though Sherlock would never admit this to Jon and risk offending him) Sherlock did enjoy the greater focus to detail he gave to their subjects. Intellectually, he challenged Sherlock more than Philomenes had; he was more cerebral, whereas Philomenes had been more emotive. Diodorus was also greatly impressed with Sherlock’s talent for deductive reasoning and intrigued with the various experiments Sherlock had conducted. Under his tutelage, Sherlock continued to thrive.

Jon, however, was less enthused to be instructed by someone who wasn’t his father, and to a degree, this was to be expected. It had to be said that Diodorus wasn’t as keen on teaching Jon either, who did not have the same philosophical talents as Sherlock, and so assigned Jon scores of military treatises, and numerous scrolls of the histories of athletics. The latter of which bored Jon to tears.

When Jon finally asked for his instruction to centre more on medicine and anatomy, only then did Diodorus give Jon suitable attention. And so their education continued. Their physical education was also expanded upon. Diodorus said now was the time to hone their physiques as they transitioned into manhood, and a greater amount of time was given in the day to the sharpening of their muscles and reactions.

Sherlock still hated that. He was not a creature who enjoyed strenuous activity. He didn’t like getting dirty if it wasn’t in the pursuit of knowledge. Besides, his arms and legs continued to grow at an alarming rate and it seemed as if no part of his body listened to his command any more. Bodies, in general, did not hold any interest to Sherlock, unless something interesting or gruesome had happened to them. Wrestling typically fell under neither of those categories.

Or so he had thought. Several months into his fourteenth year, Sherlock had begun to change his mind when an unexpected realisation came in the unsettling form of a new… _appreciation_ for the human body. Or, perhaps, the male human body. More specifically, Jon’s body. It happened thusly:

Jon had been in a snit one afternoon after Diodorus had called Jon incompetent and informed him that he would make a horrible physician if he couldn’t learn to distance himself emotionally from his patients. Jon had then focused his frustrations on Sherlock during their sparring session. The day was unseasonably hot, and Jon had thrown off the upper portion of his shorter chitoniskos, leaving his torso bare. Sweat had slickened his back and brow, and he’d glared and curled his lip before slamming into Sherlock, tackling him to the ground.

Sherlock had been a little stunned at the amount of force Jon had applied, and whether it was instinct or something else altogether, Sherlock suddenly found himself eager to really fight back for once. In the past, he usually put in the minimum amount of effort required to be considered ‘trying,’ and then simply bided his time until Jon won and they could move on with things.

Presently, the image of an irritated Jon, chest heaving and gleaming, knowing it was combined with actual anger and intent… it had caused something new to stir within Sherlock’s lungs. And. Possibly his loins. He’d wrapped his arms around Jon’s back, locked his wrists, and thrust his pelvis to the side to knock Jon off his centre of balance. Pebbles stuck unpleasantly to his back, but he found himself atop Jon, thighs straddling his chest, fingers digging into his upper arms to pin him down. He was successful for only a moment before Jon, thoroughly surprised at Sherlock’s unusually aggressive response, had growled, thrust his own hips up, arching his spine to unseat Sherlock, and threw him onto his back. Jon dug a shoulder under Sherlock’s left knee and bent him nearly in half so that only his shoulders and head were pressed between Jon and the ground. The fact that his breath had been pushed out had nothing to do with why Sherlock’s lips parted, nor why his skin was suddenly tingling everywhere. Jon’s breath panted across his face, and sweat trickled down his temple, lingering in droplets at his jaw. Sherlock was shocked to find that he wanted to know what it might taste like. His heart hammered against his ribcage, and mercifully, Diodorus proclaimed Jon the victor. Jon didn’t release Sherlock immediately, but gave him an odd, somewhat heated look before remembering their session was over and quickly letting Sherlock’s legs fall back to the ground. Panting, he sat back on his heels.

The boys looked at each other carefully, letting their breath return, and Jon forced a laugh. He stood and held out his hand to help Sherlock up. Sherlock swallowed and accepted. They were given a thirty minute break for water and to prepare for their next lesson. If either of them sat more closely than normal during their cool down, neither said a word.

 

When their lessons were at an end for the day, Sherlock veered from the path home, and Jon called after him, automatically following. Sherlock waved him off.

“It’s alright, I’ll be along later. I just wanted to check one thing before dinner,” he fibbed, turning towards the river. Jon made no move to follow and silently watched him go.

Sherlock tromped through the brush, wincing when he snagged his tunic on a bramble, but didn’t stop until he found the tree by the river he and Jon had hidden in from an angry Mycroft the day he’d taken them fishing years ago. It hadn’t been too terribly tall, but Mycroft was afraid of heights. Any heights, and the boys had sniggered and thrown twigs at him until he'd left them be. They’d stayed out until the mosquitos had forced their retreat, and Sherlock had gotten hives from being bitten so many times. Jon had laughed. Jon always laughed.

Sherlock swallowed around his dry tongue and tried to focus on determining the exact cause of these new sensations. Nothing new, per se, had happened today. Jon was irritable, but that in itself wasn’t a new phenomenon either. Jon was known to have a short, and thankfully short-lived, temper, and usually it was directed at Sherlock. He settled in the vee of a branch, resting his chest against its wide limb, and crossed his arms with his chin on his wrists. Jon hadn’t said anything particularly flattering, outside of his normal compliments. Sherlock softly smiled. Jon did have a tendency to tell him he was brilliant. And wonderful. And an idiot. He snorted.

The image of Jon’s bare chest, glistening with a sheen of sweat in the midday sun flashed before his mind’s eye and Sherlock choked. He closed his eyes, shook his head. Why should that be troublesome? He’d seen Jon bare-chested, nude even, hundreds of times. The thought of Jon being nude now while he washed for supper immediately set his heart to racing.

Sherlock sat up, alarmed. Perhaps he was ill. He might be coming down with something. A fever of some sort. Jon would know. He swallowed. Perhaps he should ask Jon to check him for sickness.

He slowly inhaled, calming himself, and the lingering memory of the feel of Jon’s breath rolling over his cheeks, and the way the front of his thighs had felt against Sherlock’s back urged a shiver through his insides. He quirked his lips. He wasn’t being entirely truthful with himself. Jon had been different of late. Sherlock had noticed a small change in his behaviour. And, again, if he were being honest, he’d noticed a change in his physique, too. Initially, Sherlock had scoffed at him, but Jon had taken to running of a morning and doing extra conditioning after the evening meal. His body was developing lines and definition. He’d outgrown his sandals twice already this year alone, and while Sherlock was increasingly feeling a loss of control in his own body, Jon had taken to these recent modifications easily. He’d adopted a sort of… swagger to his step. It had intrigued Sherlock to observe these changes in his friend, and in others around Jon, because they had apparently noticed as well. Just the other morning his mother had prepared an extra egg with Jon’s breakfast, remarking that growing men need more protein. He’d blushed and ducked his head. Why, even the maids had been particularly… simpering around Jon. People were noticing him. Sherlock’s guts twisted. He wasn’t sure he liked that so much. Even still, he doubted whether any of that was the reason for his intense reactions earlier. Actual, physical reactions. How curious.

A nightingale sounded in the thicket, and Sherlock glanced up, surprised at how late it was. His mother would be sending Jon out soon to find him. He smirked. Perhaps they could fish.

Sherlock hopped down out of the tree with a thud, and pressed the back of his hand to his cheek. He was a bit warm. Really, that must be it. He was simply ill.

Sherlock was welcomed home by the sound of his irate mother, hands on her hips, yelling at him for running off alone and coming in after supper. Jon was curled up against the pillows in the corner with a long scroll unfurled across his lap. He glanced up at Sherlock once, then turned back to the parchment with a smirk playing on his lips in the soft glow of an oil lantern near his hip. A wave of warmth washed over Sherlock, and he dutifully apologised to his mother with a kiss on the cheek. She narrowed her eyes, knowing exactly how conniving her son could be, but when he reached for her hand and pressed it against his forehead with a question in his eyes, she relented.

“What is wrong, Sherlock?”

“Do I feel warm to you?”

Jon looked up from his scroll again.

Alcestis pressed her lips to Sherlock’s forehead. “A bit. You’ve been out wandering around, though. I shouldn’t think you have a fever judging from this.”

“Any other symptoms?” Jon asked. Sherlock bit back a smile at how hopeful he sounded.

“Wouldn’t that just delight you?” he said, arching a brow.

Jon shook his head, but resolutely turned back to his scroll to ignore him.

“Do you feel unwell?” Alcestis continued, lightly running her hands up and down Sherlock’s bare arms.

He rubbed at his stomach, knowing he was taking advantage, but he’d missed dinner after all and really was hungry. Surprisingly. He actually had an appetite for once.

“Perhaps a bit,” he sighed. “Maybe I should eat something? Do we have any of the honeycakes left?"

Jon narrowed his eyes and shook his head once more from the corner.

Alcestis clucked, and pulled Sherlock away towards the kitchen to fuss over him. She bustled about mixing up something to settle his stomach, and cut a slice of the sweet cake. Sherlock smiled his best smile. The one reserved strictly for mother, and nuzzled her arm with his head as she passed. She sat beside him while he ate and made sure he finished his tonic, which Sherlock nearly gagged through to get down. It was awful. Surely something could be done to improve that wretched taste? Sherlock was developing an interest in solutions and compounds. Perhaps he could work on that.

When he’d finished she reached for his hands and pointed a look at him. “Off to bed, now.”

“Yes, mother.” He dropped one more kiss atop the crown of curly, brown and silver-streaked hair, and shuffled slowly down the hall. Once around the corner, he resumed his normal pace intent on settling in Mycroft's old room. Technically, it was now his. It had been so since his brother had moved out and Jon had taken Sherlock's old room, but the boy still had a hard time accepting this new space with it's ostentatiously bright, mural-painted walls as _his_. As he approached now, there was a familiar shape looming in the doorway.

Jon was leaning on his hip, arms loosely crossed, silhouetted by dim candlelight from within. Something about the vision he made struck Sherlock as ethereal, artistic. Lovely. Like a statue carved from marble, polished and smooth. He swallowed; his tongue had gone dry again. Goodness, there really was something wrong with him.

“Are you really ill, or were you faking it for honeycakes?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed past Jon to drape himself elegantly across his bed. Jon sauntered in, dropping the heavy curtains back into place at the threshold, and began fussing with the lamp burning on his desk. It was a gift from Jon that he'd found a few years back in Athens, of a grotesque, black clay, human head, with white enamel eyes, the light of which burned through a gaping mouth open in a silent scream. Sherlock had immediately proclaimed it his favourite thing and had hugged Jon with a brilliant smile.

“I am,” Sherlock sniffed, tracking Jon’s partially shadowed form across the room.

Jon turned at that and moved towards him. “Really? What’s wrong?” He reached for Sherlock’s jaw with warm, careful fingers and gently felt below the bone towards his throat. Sherlock’s heart beat triple time in his chest, and his face flushed. He was sure his skin was pink; he silently thanked the gods for dim lighting. Jon’s brows rose. “Your heartbeat is a little erratic. What have you done?”

' _What have_ you _done?_ ' Sherlock wanted to ask instead. He shrugged and pulled away from Jon’s touch.

“I haven’t done anything.”

Jon scowled, passing a critical eye over his friend. “Well, how would I know? You disappeared on your oh-so-secret mission earlier. Gods only know what you’ve contracted since.” Finding nothing immediately apparent, he flopped down beside Sherlock on his stomach, arms flung out wide. He sighed and stretched his back and legs until his toes flexed, and Sherlock found himself inextricably drawn to the hemline of his chitoniskos where it had rucked to his upper thigh. Without conscious decision, his eyes followed the lines that led up and over the curve of his bum, followed the graceful dip in the small of his back. They skipped to the smooth, exposed flesh of his left shoulder, showing off golden skin in the flickering candlelight that Sherlock knew would only get darker as the season wore on, to the short but intriguing bend of his neck before finally coming to a stop at the lobe of his left ear. Sherlock licked his lips. Jon stretched once more with a groan and rolled onto his side, propped up on an elbow.

Sherlock immediately turned away, feeling his cheeks burn. What was _wrong_ with him? Why was he staring at Jon like he was some sort of previously unknown species? And had Jon always hovered so closely? He jerked when he felt fingers tapping at his and looked down to where his hand lay beside his thigh. Jon was casually playing with his fingers and watching him with an odd look in his eyes.

“You seem…”

“Sick?” Sherlock offered with a crack in his voice. He cleared his throat.

Jon grinned. “I was going to say ‘ _off_ ,’ but if you really are sick….” With a sigh, Jon slid his fingers through Sherlock’s, and tugged him down so that Sherlock found himself on his back. He clenched his free hand and focussed on breathing slowly.

Jon didn’t release his hand, instead bringing it up closer to continue playing and studying their fingers. Holding hands, and even the odd peck on the cheek, wasn’t anything new between them, but before where it had been comforting and a show of friendly affection, it now felt electrifying and wonderful. And horrible. Which made no sense. It caused the butterflies flapping through his stomach to scatter in a panic. He felt as if he’d been dropped from a great height too quickly. His mouth was again stuffed with wool.

Jon shook beside him in silent laughter and leaned up and over to peer down. “Do I need to call for your mother? Why are you so quiet?”

Sherlock scoffed and pushed Jon back. “I do not need my mother, especially when I have my physician here. So go on. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Jon smiled and sat up on his knees, finally letting Sherlock’s hand go. “Alright. What are your symptoms?”

Sherlock reached up and clasped his hands behind his head and took a deep breath. “Bouts of vertigo.”

Jon frowned. “Go on.”

“My stomach feels… weak.”

“Nauseous?”

“No,” Sherlock bit his lip in thought. “No, more like a… flutter. Just, weak.”

Jon nodded. “Alright. What else?”

“My tongue.”

Jon paused and licked his lips, his eyes flicked to Sherlock’s mouth. “Your tongue? What’s wrong with it?”

Sherlock stuck it out and spoke around it, “It theelsth like cothon.”

Jon barked a laugh and nudged him with his knee. “Sherlock. How much have you had to drink today?” Sherlock shrugged, relaxing into their easy goading. Jon sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “If you’re dehydrated then any number of things can happen. I think you just need more water.” He slid off the bed, going to the pitcher and basin on a side table and poured Sherlock a glass. The glass was a new acquisition he'd picked up on the most recent trip to Athens. It was a cloudy, milk-white, mottled thing, with blue glass mosaic bits in the base. Let Mycroft have his fancy, painted walls. Sherlock much preferred interesting objects. Jon returned, tugging Sherlock up to drink, which he did gratefully. When his friend reached back for the glass to set it aside, their fingers brushed, and Sherlock felt them tingle at the touch. Jon stared down at Sherlock with a thoughtful expression that immediately set Sherlock’s heart beating quickly again. He held his gaze, determined to remain indifferent, even as his skin grew warmer. The water had done nothing to quench his thirst.

Jon smiled. “You ought to get some rest.”

Sherlock’s brows rose. “Physician’s orders?”

Jon nodded. “Yes. Come on.” He leaned over and pulled at the bedclothes. Sherlock stood and began to pull off his rumpled chitonisko, thinking he may as well sleep off this strange malady, but he suddenly stopped with a flash of self-consciousness. His fingers hovered uncertainly at the cotton hem at his thighs, and he swallowed past a lump in his throat. The moment passed when he told himself he was being ridiculous, and pulled the garment up and over his head, before quickly crawling under the covers. Jon turned to blow out the lamp, and then Sherlock’s eyes widened in the dark when the sound of rustling cloth, and the ping of Jon’s fibula hit the floor, followed by Jon himself sliding in beside him.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked a little too quickly.

Jon snorted. “Going to sleep, you daft ox. Can’t have my patient alone when he’s feeling ill, now can I?” Jon rolled towards him and snuffled into his pillow. Then, “ _Gods_ , you’re warm.” He reached up to feel Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered once at the feel of Jon’s fingers on his cheeks, over his brows; Jon tutted.

“You _do_ feel warm. Should I get a damp cloth?”

“No,” Sherlock whispered. “I’ll be fine. Just. Just sleep.”

Jon exhaled softly and threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s thick curls, rubbing soothing circles against his scalp. Sherlock just managed to swallow a whimper. Jon’s nose nuzzled alongside his and he pecked a kiss against his cheek, staying close, breathing each other’s air. Their knees bumped together under the sheets and Sherlock felt he might very well begin trembling at any moment; then again, he might feel worse if Jon stopped. At every point they touched, he felt that fiery tingling. Odd, it definitely was, but it was also very soothing. Jon's touch had always been a comfort, but now it just felt so pleasant. His lids grew heavy as if he'd drunk wine, and he leaned into the touch.

“Sleep, then. I’ll be here,” Jon whispered. His fingers never stopped their ministrations in Sherlock’s hair, and he was soon lulled to sleep by the soothing motion of soft caresses and warm breaths steadily puffing across his face.

 

-*- ἀγάπη -*-

 

Sherlock woke up alone, and then struggled to figure out why that was so disappointing. He rolled over, fingers drifting over the sheets where Jon had slept; cold. The room was still dim, but it was well past the time when Jon would’ve gotten up to run. Groaning, he rolled over and mashed his face against the cool side of the down pillow. Given the level of light filtering through his single window, he had another hour before needing to get ready for lessons. He still nearly overslept.

Jon was already waiting for him, face cheerful and relaxed, leaning back on his elbows in a patch of grass whose dew had already burned off. He inclined his head as Sherlock approached and Diodorus muttered something about lazy youths, and they picked back up on their discussion the previous day about Aristotle’s theory of universals.

Today, rather than focussing the majority of his attention on his teacher’s words, Sherlock’s mind wandered again to the subject of Jon and his strange reaction to him last night. He slid his gaze sideways, observing. There was a faint line between Jon’s brows where they were furrowed in thought. Sherlock settled back against the yew providing morning shade, and let the bubbling warmth of affection wash over him. Jon stared ahead, gaze intent and focussed, struggling to soak up the words that Sherlock effortlessly understood. He did have to admire his friend. He really was like a solider in the discipline he maintained at working harder in their studies to keep up. It was admirable really, and at times, Sherlock was even a bit jealous. What Jon earned he did so by genuinely working for it, whereas most days, for Sherlock, it was effortless. Said subject of his musing scratched a spot on his neck where Sherlock’s eyes were burning holes, and he turned to look at Sherlock, quirking his brow. Sherlock bit his cheek to stifle the grin and casually turned to face Diodorus. In his periphery Jon narrowed his eyes.

Sherlock inhaled deeply then tried to exhale his frustrations. His problem was nonsensical. What he needed was to rationalise. What were the facts regarding himself and Jon?

He cared for Jon; he was his dearest friend. Where others occasionally found him abrasive or strange, Jon found him charming and welcomed his eccentricities. This would suggest that Jon himself was odd, and that thought appealed to Sherlock. They were like two peas in a pod. They matched.

Jon was loyal. It was natural for Sherlock, to therefore, seek out his company. Loyalty is a quality much admired and to be commended. The world, as his father had once said, is full of those who would cheat and swindle you for their own gains. Finding those who would remain loyal to you is one of the greatest gifts to be found. Ergo, Jon was his gift.

Jon was... his eyes skittered over to his friend and slowly trailed up and over his ankles, knees, to hips and shoulders. Jon was changing. They were ageing. With age came more responsibilities. Duties. People. Something deep inside snarled at this thought and Sherlock felt his chest tense up with pressure. People. _Other_ people. His eyes narrowed. It was no small secret that Sherlock had possessive tendencies regarding what he thought was his. From childhood he'd coveted and hoarded strange objects, scrolls, knowledge, and when Jon came along, the boy himself. Yes, if he were honest, he was possessive of Jon. Sherlock had promised to take care of Jon, too. Jon was, essentially, _his_.

Sherlock swallowed, staring at his friend's profile until the image blurred.

It was just that... he treasured Jon, and his attention, so. The easy camaraderie they'd adopted together was special. It was a relationship unlike any he'd ever had. He took affection from his mother, and often returned it, but aside from her there were no others Sherlock sought out. Only, the way Jon's affection these days made him feel decidedly different than a soft touch from his mother. His cheeks heated and Sherlock looked away. He felt strangely embarrassed.

He brought his attention back to Diodorus, who gestured to the scrolls he'd set on the ground before them. Sherlock retrieved one, handing the other to Jon, who smiled, and Sherlock's belly lit up with a buzz. He shook his head and unrolled the scroll, reading along with a passage Diodorus quoted aloud.

Absently, his thumb traced over the skin of his exposed knee, back and forth, and Sherlock lazily contemplated sensation.

Sensation.

In a moment of clarity, he looked down to his hand and stared as his thumb swept side to side, focusing on the feel of his finger grazing the sensitive flesh along the dips of his knee. Scroll abandoned, Sherlock trailed a finger up along his stomach and chest, across and down one arm, stopping at his palm. Slowly, he traced the lines leading up to his first knuckles, and then down. Up and over the heel of his palm and then lingering to brush over the delicate skin of his wrist. His eyes darted to Jon and he remembered the way his fingers had played with his, the way his touch brought heat and tingles. Sherlock's eyes went round.

Touch. Physical sensation. Sherlock rolled his eyes and cursed himself. He was such a fool. _That_ was why he’d been so off the previous night. He was of a certain age now... and he couldn’t deny that there had been a sudden, ah, interest in exploring the feel of his hands along his skin of late. It was natural to want to explore one's body. After all, one has to know oneself if one wants to know the way others work. Sherlock wrapped long fingers around his wrist and squeezed. He was simply getting mixed up, confusing the feel of Jon’s hands with his. Sherlock groaned and Jon looked at him again. Diodorus paused in his oration to scowl.

“Did you wish to contribute, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shook his head and re-settled the scroll in his lap. “No, sir.”

 Diodorus nodded and continued.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to Jon and he felt that knot of anxiety in his chest loosen considerably. He was fine. They were fine. It was all fine. He would simply be more conscious of the fact when they were next affectionate in order to head off the odd feelings of dizziness and anxiety.

Situation settled, Sherlock fully turned his attention back to his lessons, feeling relieved.

 

-*- ἀγάπη -*-

 

That evening as the sun set, Sherlock purposefully plopped down in front Jon on the steps in the courtyard, enjoying the chorus of locusts serenading the coming night. They watched the colours in the sky shift from fiery oranges and yellows, to indigos and deepest blues. Stars winked into view against a black backdrop that spread out into infinity. He leaned his back up against Jon and allowed himself to enjoy the sensation of his friend solid behind him. This was affection. A thing to be treasured. It was natural, and as the great philosophers before them had expounded upon, there was nothing wrong with physically expressing such feelings to those he cared for with casual touches. He reasoned that his body was simply old enough now to appreciate it. It was a mark of maturity, really. Nothing to get so anxious about. Jon sighed behind him and pressed closer, settling his arms over Sherlock's shoulders, and resting his chin atop his head. Sherlock felt that ball of warmth Jon so often inspired within pulse brightly, and grinned softly to himself.

When Jon snuck into his bed again later that night, curling into his side, arms sliding around his waist, and nose snuffling into his curls, Sherlock welcomed him with his own arms, and smiled into the darkness, completely at ease.

 

-*- ἀγάπη -*-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun note: the black lamp I described of Sherlock's actually exists and is in the Hellenistic Greek era section at the British Museum. It's pretty rad.


	4. Book I, Chapter iv

Spring was a wondrous season, Diodorus had said, to listen to lectures while exploring the new growth of the world opening up around them. They'd begun spending the mornings walking the fields, observing the tender new shoots of flora, the clumsy stumbles of fuzzy, newly born fauna. When not lecturing, Diodorus quizzed Sherlock over the theories of the state of nature, and Jon over the bones and muscles of the body.

On the fifth such day in a row of educational wanderings, Sherlock was about to unleash the finer points of how much he was beginning to loathe nature and the way it made his sandaled feet wet and then cold, when a shrill cry sounded on the other side of the hill they were climbing. He and Jon looked at each other for one brief moment before Jon tore off towards the top of the hill and over, with Sherlock following. How fortuitous it would be if they came across something gruesome.

When he crested the top, Sherlock noticed two figures part way down and near the gate to the entrance of their neighbour, (Jon would say friend) Milo’s, family home. It was two women. One of which was Milo.

Jon reached them first, and where Sherlock was slightly puffing from exertion, Jon was pleasantly at rest. His cheeks merely a bit ruddy.

“Milo,” Jon crouched low, brows raised in concern, reaching for her. She sat upon the ground with her small hands wrapped round an ankle that looked swollen.

Milo’s mother, Demetria, Sherlock thought her name was, was fussing behind her.

“Oh, thank the gods. Milo, the clumsy thing, stumbled in a burrow just there.”

Milo attempted to force an awkward laugh, the effect of which was ruined by the tear sliding down her cheek. “I’m sure it’s all right,” she winced. Her eyes were as red as her face, and she was frantically looking between Sherlock and her ankle. Jon tisked at her, and reached again. Diodorus finally arrived to offer assistance, huffing and dabbing at his forehead with a corner of his robe.

“May I?” Jon asked. His voice was calm, quiet, soothing. Sherlock knew this side of Jon well, and he felt a stab of pride for his friend, knowing he could competently manoeuvre the situation.

“Jon,” Diodorus quickly explained, “has been studying the art of healing. He is quite adept, I assure you, Demetria.”

Demetria nodded, and Jon carefully pulled Milo’s hands away to examine her ankle. Beside him, Sherlock could all but feel Diodorus watching and appraising as if Jon were in the midst of an exam. He supposed in a way he was. Sherlock watched, fascinated.

Jon’s fingers gently depressed the swollen flesh, and Milo hissed. He quickly eased his hold, murmuring a soft apology. “I’m going to feel around to make sure none of your bones have snapped.” He smiled at her kind eyes. “They are very tiny, delicate. We want to make sure they are properly set if they have been damaged.”

Milo’s lips parted and she nodded. At her side, Demetria laid a palm against her chest. Sherlock shuffled on his feet watching the women curiously.

“Goodness, Jon, can you do that at this age?” Demetria breathed, her eyes rapidly appraising Jon from toe to crown.

Diodorus quickly stepped up, leaning over Jon’s shoulder, monitoring his work. “Oh yes. Jon has been training since he was a young child. In fact, as I understand, he has wrapped many a sling for Sherlock throughout his life.”

Jon chuckled, and gently rolled Milo’s ankle. She winced and her hands flew to Jon’s wrists. He looked up and smiled again. She bit her lip. Sherlock frowned. Milo's reaction was suddenly interesting. He pulled his gaze away from watching Jon work, and instead began observing her expressions. Her eyes were… glassy, the pupils enlarged. Enlarged pupils were not a typical pain reaction at all. That was usually associated with pleasure. He narrowed his eyes. Adding to the fact that Milo, who was widely known to be besotted with Sherlock, hadn’t so much as looked at him in several minutes.... Sherlock's fingers curled into a ball at his side.

Jon finished manipulating her foot with a nod and then looked up to Demetrius. “It does not feel as if any of the tarsals or metatarsals are fractured, but her ligaments are certainly stressed. We should remove her to her home and wrap it at the bare minimum.”

Milo and Demetria both gasped, both for very different reasons. Milo’s blush extended towards her chest, and she coyly looked down to her knees. “I couldn’t possibly walk at the moment.”

Jon chuckled beside her and shuffled forward, the muscles in his thighs and calves twitching with each movement. Sherlock swallowed and threw a glare at the girl.

“Of course you cannot.” Jon murmured. “I insist on carrying you.” His eyes darted to Demetria. “If you would allow me, that is.”

Demetria nodded instantly, and Milo clenched her fingers in her peplos. Sherlock crossed his arms with a huff. She had obviously forgotten about the pain in her ankle if the flush staining her chest, the quickened breaths, the way she was biting her lip in anticipation were any indication.

“Are you sure you cannot walk?” Sherlock clipped.

Milo blinked in surprise as if she'd forgotten he was still there.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jon replied. His large hands slid carefully under her arms, lifting her to a standing position on her good foot. “Do not put any weight on your injured ankle,” he gently reminded. She hissed again, actual pain, and leant into Jon’s shoulder. He then dipped down and very carefully slid a hand behind her knees, slowly easing her so that he was carrying her in a bridal lift. He eyed her dangling feet. “Is that too uncomfortable?” he asked.

Sherlock’s jaw dropped. They were more than a stadion from their home. Did Jon really intend to carry her the whole distance? Unbidden, his eyes dropped to the corded muscles flexing in his arms, to the wool of his chiton stretched tight across his smooth back. Sherlock swallowed around his infuriatingly dry throat again. Milo nodded, and wrapped her arms about Jon’s neck, and something odd happened. To his utter bewilderment, when her fingers tentatively creeped up to the soft, blond hair curling against his nape, the nape Sherlock’s fingers had tangled in only last night a voice in his head reminded him, he positively saw red. It was the most absurd reaction.

With Milo stabilised, Jon began the slow trek to Demetria’s home, who trailed after and maintained a steady stream of compliments and platitudes. Sherlock was left to helplessly follow after, ignoring Diodorus puffing to keep up. As he stomped petulantly behind them, Sherlock alternated between irritated grumbling and throwing vicious glares to the girl cradled in Jon's arms. When she buried her face into Jon’s neck, Sherlock clenched his jaw, and grit his teeth, and something dark and ugly settled in his gut.

When they _finally_ arrived, Jon gently eased her onto a stack of pillows in their front room, while Demetria flitted about grabbing the items Jon had requested. Milo’s fingers clenched in the fabric of Jon’s chiton, and Sherlock huffed. He stepped forward.

“Why don’t you go see if Demetria has what you are looking for?” Sherlock offered. His gaze was intently focussed on where Milo was clinging to Jon so fiercely she was liable to tear the fibula from his shoulder.

Jon nodded and made to step back, when Milo's fingertips whitened with the effort of resisting his escape.

“No!” she gasped, and then blushed. “I mean, I would much prefer Jon to stay. It does so hurt,” she simpered. Jon cooed and nodded in sympathy. Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned.

At this, Jon looked up and Sherlock arched a sardonic brow. Jon narrowed his eyes.

“Sherlock, why don’t _you_ go assist Demetria?” he snipped, turning away from him and focussing again on Milo. Awful Milo, who sighed, and whimpered, and threw the most disgusting looks at Jon, who ducked his head with a blush.

Sherlock scoffed and made to turn away, but then Jon leaned in close to whisper something Sherlock couldn’t hear, and the steadily simmering swirl of anger in his stomach erupted into a white-hot flash. Sherlock viciously crossed his arms, altogether ceasing to hide his disdain. He openly sneered at Milo and refused to move out of the way when her mother returned with supplies. Diodorus had to physically push him aside muttering a terse chastisement.

Jon ignored all this, and Sherlock began to wonder now if he remembered that Sherlock was still there. Eyes narrowed and arms resolutely crossed, Sherlock watched silently while Jon wrapped Milo’s ankle in the linen strips, and murmured quietly to mother and daughter. Diodorus stood steady beside him, rarely speaking as Jon really was proficient at wrapping joints by this point. _‘Thanks to me,’_ Sherlock thought with a scowl.

“Very well done, Jon,” Diodorus praised. Jon’s smile was radiant, and Demetria nearly worked herself into a swoon over exclamations of how talented, strong, and handsome Jon had grown up to be. Milo nodded readily and thanked Jon, repeatedly, with, in Sherlock’s opinion, an excess of touches. Sherlock grit his teeth. Didn't she know that people had personal spaces? Perhaps Diodorus had been right in telling Jon he should distance himself from his patients.

When Diodorus finished inspecting Jon’s work, they were each sent off with a loaf of bread, and a stream of gratitude following them out the doorway into the courtyard. Jon promised to come back to monitor Milo’s healing in a few days. “Just to be safe.” In return, they promised to extend their gratitude to Septimius as soon as Milo’s father returned from the city. Jon’s chest had puffed with pride, and he blushed once more. It was disturbingly endearing.

Outside, Sherlock was fighting an oncoming rush of some kind of anxiety, and he couldn’t stop twisting his fingers in the wool hanging limply at his waist. It was all he could do to stop himself from physically dragging Jon out and away from that house and those wretched women with their compliments and sighs. He kept replaying the image of Jon leaning in close to murmur in Milo’s ear, and the way her lips had pursed and her eyes had flashed. He felt ill. Again. He must certainly be ill. Somehow Jon was turning Sherlock’s constitution into something very poor indeed.

Diodorus and Jon continued their discourse about all things medical for the rest of the journey home, and Sherlock trailed unhappily behind. There was a decided swagger in Jon’s step, even more so than usual, and his laughs came easily considering who he was conversing with. He and Diodorus were finally bonding. Sherlock’s lips thinned.

Because Jon had done so very well, and they had had a practical lesson that day, they were released from lessons for the rest of the afternoon. As soon as they were out of sight, Jon whooped and leaped up onto Sherlock’s back. Sherlock stumbled under the sudden onslaught and Jon locked his ankles around his waist.

“Did you see that, Sherlock?!” he yelled, laughing. “That was brilliant! I did quite well I think. Diodorus was certainly impressed.”

Sherlock staggered, unable to get his legs to work correctly with Jon being an idiot and shifting around, and he finally wrenched Jon’s feet from around his waist and threw him off. Jon rushed right back up against his side, nudging him as if nothing at all was wrong, though it very obviously was. Sherlock remained silent, and determinedly stomped his way home.

“You have to admit," Jon continued, grinning and elbowing Sherlock's ribs, "I may have done a much better job because, for once, my patient wasn’t moaning or squirming around. You really are the worst. Have you any idea how difficult it is to wrap an ankle when you kick it about and complain so?” He inhaled and pointed his nose into the air. “ _‘But Jon,’_ ” he said, mimicking Sherlock’s deepening voice, “ _‘I want to watch the colours change, leave off the linen!’_ ” He laughed and Sherlock bit his tongue, balled his fists, and increased his pace.

Finally, Jon looked up, frowning at Sherlock’s continued silence. His step faltered. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock scoffed but kept on.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock stormed up the steps to the back entrance. “Yes, well done, Jon. You were quite impressive.”

At the doorway, Jon paused. Sherlock wished he were wearing his chlamys so he could at least have something to throw. Instead, he reached for a bowl of olives and popped one into his mouth. Perfect. He was so irritated he was eating olives. He didn't even _like_ olives.

He spat out the pit and wiped his expression. Jon’s brows dropped and he watched his friend casually sweep across the kitchen.

“Milo was certainly impressed.”

Jon leant his hip against the lintel and eventually nodded. “Yes. Well, anyone would be under the circumstances, I suppose. It was very fortunate we arrived when we did.”

Sherlock hummed and delicately plucked another olive. “Yes. You’re quite the hero. Saved the day. Well done.”

Jon glared. “What exactly is the problem? Were you offended by my coming to our friend’s aid?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and rounded on Jon, slowly advancing. Surely, he wasn’t serious. Did he think Sherlock blind? He lowered his voice. “ _‘Friend.’_ ” He shook his head. “Interesting choice of words.” He arched a brow, feigning curiosity. “Did you enjoy it?”

Jon’s own brows rose. “I’m sorry?”

Sherlock smirked. “Don’t play ignorant, Jon. _Milo_. Did you enjoy her attentions?”

Jon’s jaw dropped and he pushed away from the doorjamb. “I beg your pardon?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, continued his menacing advance. “Tell me, Jon, will you treat all of your patients so… familiarly?”

Jon balked. “What exactly are you implying?” His bright blue eyes flashed and a look of hurt clouded his features. He widened his stance and dropped his arms to his sides.

Sherlock sniffed. “Perhaps Diodorus was right. If that is the way you’re going to be treating those you minister to, you ought to charge an extra fee. For other services.”

Jon reeled back as if slapped, and Sherlock's stomach twisted with guilt. He wasn't entirely sure where all these negative feelings were coming from, just that if he didn't purge them they were going to swallow him whole.

When Jon spoke it was with a small voice. “Sherlock, why are you saying these things?”

Sherlock edged right up to him, their chests nearly touching, using his height to full advantage. “I saw the way she ran her fingers through your hair. Watched you whisper tender words into her impressionable and entirely idiotic ears.” He paused to watch realisation dawn in Jon’s eyes. “Were you hoping for extra payment?”

He hadn’t a moment to brace himself before Jon shoved him, and Sherlock stumbled back. Jon’s cheeks were flushed and his lips thinned in anger.

“How dare you?” he said. He followed Sherlock across the floor and Sherlock noted Jon’s hands twitching at his sides. Jon wanted to hit him. Good. For once he was spoiling for a fight.

Sherlock maintained a nasty smirk and gestured to them. “Go on then. You can patch me up after. I’ve seen how you treat others now and how could I help but not be interested?”

Instead of reacting the way he had supposed, Jon’s expression melted into one of shocked disbelief and his shoulders slumped. He looked utterly defeated. “Why are you saying this?” he whispered. The fight had gone out of him as quickly as it had flared.

Several internal voices were telling Sherlock to close his mouth and fall to his knees in apology, but the image of Milo’s fingers on Jon’s skin incensed him beyond reason. Instead, he turned and left Jon standing alone in the kitchen. When he reached his room, he thought, not for the first time, how he wished he’d a proper door to slam instead of those infuriating drapes, and he marched inside, right to the centre of his room. His guts were churning, twisting with envy, and he was overwhelmed with feelings of disappointment. Anger. His eyes frantically tracked around the room, going from one item to the next, desperate for a distraction, until they settled on the bed. With a sigh, he threw himself onto it and buried his face into the mound of feather pillows, and was abruptly exhausted. Perhaps he could sleep away the hurt. Or, perhaps he could sleep away the reasons for why he hurt.

 

-*- ἀγάπη -*-

 

The next morning dawned chilly and muted. It was the perfect match to Jon’s disposition, in fact. Jon had skipped breakfast, and Sherlock found him huddled in his himation outside of Diodorus’ front entrance. He neither looked up nor acknowledged his presence when Sherlock approached. Stung, and maybe a bit ashamed, Sherlock leant back against the side of the dwelling and pulled his own cloak tighter around him, resolutely ignoring Jon, as well. Each boy shivered in silence until, finally, their tutor opened the door.

“I think it much too chilled for a walk today, boys. Come inside. We will have lessons around a fire.”

The boys filed in, careful to keep distance between them, and Diodorus looked up into the sky, shaking his head. “Spring. Hopefully Persephone makes up her mind soon. The frost is going to do much damage to the earliest blooms.”

Jon settled on a low wooden stool near the hearth, keeping his eyes cast to the floor, and Sherlock settled at an opposite table a little further off. Diodorus prattled on, seemingly oblivious to the atmosphere surrounding his charges, and launched into the morning’s first lecture.

Sherlock paid little attention to the words spoken, though he did try. It was just, his mind felt stuffy, and his eyes were dry and gritty, and he felt generally physically ill. His stomach was in knots, he was nauseous, and this sort of illness for once was completely unrelated to the fit he’d experienced a couple of weeks prior. Though, it was still related to Jon, and it was still incredibly unpleasant.

As the morning wore on, Sherlock had barely taken in a word, and Jon hadn’t once, not even a single time, glanced at him. Not even in his direction. The wrongness of it filled all of the spaces in Sherlock that weren’t already taken over by sadness. They never quarrelled. Every time he tried to look at Jon, he couldn’t get that wretched Milo out of his head. All night his dreams had been plagued by flashes of skin, and limbs wrapped around each other. Of Milo’s coppery brown hair falling over Jon’s smooth face. He’d wanted to vomit the moment he’d awoken. Everything, _everything_ simply felt wrong. He felt awful in his own skin. It was as if the world had completely tilted, leaving Sherlock bereft and confused.

“Naturally, this leads me into Aristotle’s four classifications of love.” Diodorus rocked forward on his toes, clearly in a good mood that morning, and looking eagerly at his pupils. Jon and Sherlock’s heads both snapped up in alarm. Diodorus’ eyes positively twinkled.

“Ah, _now_ I have your attention. Very good. Which of you can tell me the four classifications, hm?”

Sherlock swallowed and cast his gaze away. He twisted a scrap of wool between his fingertips and resolutely ignored all thoughts of… love, and feelings and… anything. Everything. Perhaps he could get himself excused if he pretended to faint.

Jon, for his part, held his tutor’s gaze, but said nothing. Diodorus looked back and forth between the pair.

“Come now, what has happened with you two? You’ve been silent as the grave all morning.” He sighed when nothing was forthcoming. “I know you both know this, we’ve discussed it before, though, I admit not at great length. I hadn’t thought you ready.” He smirked. “Now, however.” Something in his voice made Sherlock look up, warily.

Diodorus prompted them again. “Come along then. The four types.” They were silent. Diodorus pinched the bridge of his nose. “ _Storge, Philia, Eros, Agape_.” The old man leaned back against a support post and ticked each off on one hand. “Familial, friendly, passionate, and pure.” He then launched into his thoughts on the finer points of each, pausing every few minutes to give the boys an odd look. He clearly understood that something unusual had happened between them, but every time he would, to Sherlock’s mind, appear to be on the verge of asking, would shake his head and continue on. Feelings had been much more Philomenes' area. Briefly, Sherlock's heart ached at the thought of how Jon's father would feel if he could see them like this.

After long minutes, Diodorus finally came to a break, and he regarded the two with a mischievous glance. “Now, given these guidelines, humour an aging philosopher and convince me you’ve paid attention. Which of the four would you consider your relationship falls under?”

Sherlock’s stomach dropped and he stared at Diodorus’ sandals. Jon, however, finally spoke for the first time that day. “Is it possible for a person to feel no love at all? To never experience any of these emotions?”

Sherlock’s breath caught in his chest.

Diodorus inhaled and tapped a finger against his leg. He nodded. “It is uncommon, but, I believe there are some individuals who are born without a capacity for love in any form, yes. Those the gods have cursed beyond measure.”

Sherlock felt a trickle of cold run down his spine and he turned just enough to catch a glimpse of Jon’s face. His eyes were hard, lips pinched tight, and he nodded once before turning back to the fire. “I think I know someone.”

Dimly, Sherlock was amazed at the amount of pain a few small words could cause.

 

What felt like hours later that afternoon, the sun was strong enough to burn away the chill, and they were told to prepare for sparring. Without a word, Jon stiffly marched away towards the pitch and immediately began his stretches. Of late, Sherlock had been quietly riveted during these moments, sneaking discreet glances at him and enjoying the sight, but that day he could hardly swallow around his heart pounding in his throat.

As he approached, Sherlock was filled with a sense of trepidation. When they met on the pitch, Sherlock again attempted to catch his eye and was dismayed to find that Jon's expression had turned to stone; much the way how Sherlock's stomach felt. He stepped forward with visibly trembling hands and tried to focus his thoughts. Sherlock should be angrier, should _want_ to fight. To channel what they had begun to the night before, but instead he felt weak and weary. He would rather do almost anything else. Jon, however, forced his hand. When the attack came, and to be sure it felt exactly like an attack, Sherlock suddenly found himself on his back and he let instinct take over.

As soon as he regained his footing, the two lunged at each other, tearing at their tunics. Jon wrapped a hand viciously around the back of Sherlock's head, grabbed a handful of his hair and _pulled_ , and something inside of Sherlock, deep in his belly, _ignited_ with flame. He gasped, throwing his head back and exposing his long neck. Jon's grip faltered briefly, and he stepped back, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. He prowled around Sherlock like an angry lion, and for some reason the sight made Sherlock's knees go weak.

"Are you going to apologise?" Jon growled, crouching low and pining Sherlock with his gaze.

Sherlock knew what he should say. He truly, truly did. But if he didn't, if he let his arrogant pride do what it usually did that would mean retaliation from Jon. It was unreasonable. He knew it was. But, with the way his skin was tingling, and the way the intensity of his gaze licked against his body like flame, Sherlock unwisely decided he very much wanted more of Jon's ire. He wanted to feel Jon punish him.

He braced for impact and shrugged. "Why should I? I was only speaking the truth." Jon did not disappoint.

The older boy slammed into him. Sherlock instinctively wrapped his arms around his back as Jon reached down behind Sherlock's knees, pulling his legs out from under him. The wind was knocked from Sherlock's lungs, and he could not take in enough air before Jon was on him, crunching him in half and pressing his face into the hard ground. Sherlock gasped and flailed, and even as he panicked some wretched part of him was delighting in the heat and solidity of Jon against him. Dimly, he thought he should be concerned over the way his sanity seemed to have left him, and he winced as jagged-edged rock sliced into his brow, drawing blood.

"That's quite enough, now!" Diodorus called, rushing up to them. His face was pale and he sent a confused look to each of them.

Jon grumbled, pressing once more against Sherlock, who wheezed beneath him, and then scrambled off and away towards the villa.

Sherlock lay bleeding and heaving ragged breaths in a heap on the ground. Spots danced before his eyes and his vision swam. His chest ached, his brow stung, and he was briefly concerned he'd pulled something in his back. The pain, he also decided, was deeply satisfying. He knew he deserved it.

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 


	5. Book I, Chapter v

The following day passed much the same as the previous with the two avoiding each other as often as possible. It was hateful. On Saturday, there were no lessons, and Sherlock woke to find that Jon was absent from the house. That ever-present knot of anxiety churned in his gut, and when he casually enquired as to his whereabouts, his mother informed him that Jon had gone to see Milo. Sherlock’s heart stuttered in his chest.

“When?” he demanded.

Alcestis turned, brows raised, appraising her son. Sherlock took a calming breath, unclenched his fingers, and casually wandered to the table to run an eye over the breakfast of barley bread and weak wine. She carefully replied that he’d left an hour ago. Sherlock hummed and struggled to maintain an indifferent expression, which his mother immediately saw through.

“Is everything all right between the two of you?” she asked softly.

Sherlock forced a tight smile and nodded sharply. “I have several projects today.” He turned and left for his room without another word.

He did, in fact, have many experiments in progress. There were a few scrolls he needed to read in preparation for their lesson at the start of the week. There was the rat corpse he was in the middle of observing for rates of decay and he hadn't yet marked his observations for day eight. More than anything though, he just wanted to stop thinking about Jon. Being with Milo. With a shake he strode up to his desk, dipped his stylus into a pot of ink and turned his attention to his rat.

Sherlock was able to keep himself successfully distracted until midday, when he warily wandered back into the main house. Expecting to see Jon, he drifted from room to room only to find he hadn’t returned. One of the older servants who had always been particularly fond of Jon, Laodice, was in the courtyard gardening around the base of a palm. Sherlock went to her and asked if she had seen Jon that day. She had not. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and fled as calmly as possible back to the safety of his quarters.

He paced. He rationalised. The day was half over so Milo's family had probably invited him to stay for luncheon out of gratitude. It was the kind thing to do for someone offering their services to the health of their child. It was a fair distance from their property to his family’s. Jon was a social, friendly sort of creature anyway.

An image of his lips nearly brushing Milo’s ear pulled a growl from Sherlock's throat, and he resumed his stalking. _Milo_. With her stupid sighs, and her eyes that widen, and the way she kept touching Jon as if she had any right. It was ridiculous how obvious she had been. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and winced at the sick bubbling in his stomach. He leaned his palms against the desk. The girl wasn’t the type to appreciate subtlety. She would use her open naivety to entice Jon. Would she smile and look deep into his eyes? Jon liked eye contact. Sherlock swallowed against rising nausea. She would find excuses to touch his arm, run her fingers along his broad shoulders. Would he kiss her?

Sherlock abruptly pulled away from that image and grabbed a nearby scroll, unfurling it halfway only to throw it down a moment later. His eyes fell upon the window and he bit his lip. Perhaps Jon was walking home now, he thought. Perhaps Sherlock could happen to meet him on the way? His feet were already carrying him towards the door before he realised he was actually doing so.

Outside, the breeze was brisk and it was overcast. Sherlock worried that Jon had underdressed. He was terrible at predicting the weather, and it would rain within the hour. He turned back to fetch his himation, noticed Jon’s, and grabbed it on impulse.

He wandered for three hours until dark. He wandered through rain and mud and felt nothing.

When he walked in at exactly suppertime to find Jon hadn’t somehow missed him, his shoulders drooped and he stopped inside the lintel.

“Where have you been?” his mother asked, furrowed brow firmly in place.

He shook his head, avoiding his father’s glance. “Has Jon returned?”

“No.”

Sherlock nodded. That meant that Jon was staying with Milo for dinner. That meant her parents had invited him to stay the entire day. That was _entirely_ more significant. Sherlock wanted to collapse.

“Sherlock, are you well?” His father slowly rose from the table, eyes travelling carefully over his son’s face.

He nodded and hung his and Jon’s drenched cloaks on their respective hooks. Alcestis swept towards to her son, brushing a dripping lock of hair from his eyes. Her soft hands cupped his cheeks and she shook her head.

“Tell me you weren’t in the rain all afternoon. Honestly, Sherlock. You'll catch your death.”

“I am tired. Excuse me.” He gently pulled away and at the last minute turned towards the courtyard instead of his room. He sat on a damp, stone step and hugged his knees to his chest. The rain had moved on and the sky was clear that night, though a damp chill hung in the air. Wherever he was Jon must be freezing. His eyes stung and he shivered.

Sherlock rubbed ice cold hands up and down his bare arms that were dimpled with gooseflesh. Jon was always careful to remind Sherlock to keep warm on nights like these. A sad smile tugged at Sherlock's lips, and he slowly rubbed his hands along his biceps, closing his eyes and imagining that it were Jon's hands on him instead. He shivered again, feeling his heart crack. He missed Jon. It had only been a few days, but he acutely missed Jon and his proximity. His easy touches. His smiles. Simply... _him_. And now, Jon was giving his affection to another.

Milo’s parents would insist he stay because of the rain. Horrible weather was a godsend to a mother looking to match her daughter with a guest in their home. Jon would be a blessing to them. He was skilled. He was handsome. He was easy-going and friendly, and had ambitions to be an officer. Granted, he was still far too young, but he had rescued their clumsy daughter and thus proven he could care for her. Demetria, scheming, conniving woman that she was would pull out every trick she knew to invite him to stay for dinner. To contrive of a way to get her husband to observe his potential son-in-law. He would not possibly find fault with Jon, nor a single reason to deny his wife’s awful request. He’d be a fool to, and soon he would visit Septimius. They would arrange the terms of a match in the future, and Jon would be informed that he’d been promised a wife in a few years, and then it seemed as if the air around him vanished completely. Milo would be forbidden from view after her examination, but if she and her mother were determined she'd work around that. They might even be in each other’s arms at that very moment making promises.

Sherlock was going to be sick. And with a sinking feeling he understood that it was because of his heart.

When the sound of gravel crunching underfoot sounded in the darkness, Sherlock’s head snapped up and he froze. Jon slowly emerged from the shadows and paused when he noticed Sherlock. They stared at each other silently for only a moment before Sherlock couldn’t hold back any longer.

“How was Milo?”

Jon shook his head and crossed his arms. He raised his chin. “Healing well.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to his feet, nearly blue, wet. His skin was pale in the half-light. “Thanks to your thorough attentions, I’m sure.”

Alcestis appeared at the doorway and called a greeting.

“Jon! I’ve been wondering about you. Are you hungry, _o̱raiótatos_?”

Sherlock sat up, jaw clenched as Jon stomped by. He listened to the sound of boards creaking as Jon crossed to greet her, there was a peck when he kissed her cheek.

“Starving, in fact.”

What?

Sherlock’s breath left in a rush and he spun around with wide eyes. “Did you not stay for supper?”

Jon paused with Alcestis’ arm around his shoulder, frowning fiercely. “No.” He added, “Though, I was asked.”

Sherlock didn’t miss the harshness of his tone, though he did the look his mother gave him before leading Jon away. As they left, she asked, “How is Milo? And her father?”

Sherlock didn’t hear what Jon said. Primarily, because he was rushing back to his bedroom, welcoming a profound sense of relief. Jon hadn’t stayed. He’d been asked, but he’d refused. That would be rude. Though, Jon was charming enough to play it off, but even still. He’d refused. He’d _refused_! Sherlock felt like laughing but didn’t dare. His mind was still reeling, and his chest was still far too tight, but oh how Jon’s words soothed him. In a manner.

From the hall, Sherlock could hear Jon and his mother’s laughter. With his heart slowing also came a pang. He curled onto his side in bed, wishing more than anything that he could be laughing with them.

 

The night wore on and the sounds of home quieted as his family retired. Sherlock lay fitfully in bed, resolutely _not_ thinking about anything to do with Jon, when his mother knocked and entered. Sherlock mentally sighed and toyed with the idea of pretending to be asleep.

“I know you are awake, it’s no use,” she said. He could all but hear her grin.

Sherlock felt the gentle depression at his side where his mother perched, and then felt her soft hands gently card through his hair. She hummed and, despite himself, Sherlock leant into her touch. It had been days since he’d felt… since Jon had… it was alarming how dependent he had become on such a silly thing. How significant it was becoming.

She went on petting him for a long moment before quietly asking what he’d no doubt she’d come for in the first place. “So. What have you done to Jon?”

He stiffened and turned his head away. “I haven’t done anything.”

His mother hummed again. “Forgive me, my love, but I’m afraid I disagree.”

Sherlock turned back to her and frowned. “Did Jon say I did?”

She smiled at him sadly in the moonlight, never stopping her fingers stroking through his curls. “He does not have to say anything. You and I both know he’s much simpler to read.”

Sherlock huffed and rolled onto his other side, facing away but staying close enough to let his mother soothe him. Jon wasn’t the only one she could read without words and he knew it.

“I do not know what tension has come between you,” she continued, “but I’m asking you to be brave and resolve it. I would have to be blind to see that my sons are miserable.” She lightly scratched at his scalp. “It’s unnatural for the two of you to quarrel this way. Fix it, please.”

Sherlock clenched his eyes. ‘ _My sons._ ’ She might be horrified to learn exactly how un-brotherly Sherlock regarded Jon of late.

She inhaled but didn’t speak. Her fingers mimicked her cessation as if she were carefully decided how to proceed. “Jon is… special. He sees others and has a desire to help them if he can. It is a wonderful quality, but it doesn’t necessarily mean…” Sherlock tensed beneath her fingers. “It doesn’t mean he favours others more simply because he shows them a kindness.”

She bent forward to brush a kiss against his temple and rose to leave. At the doorway, she turned with a smile in her voice. “If you honestly think you aren’t his favourite person on this earth, you are not the brilliant boy I have always assumed you to be.” She added with a whisper, “Those who mean the most to us can also hurt us the worst. Keep that in mind, my son. Sleep well.”

Sherlock turned his face into his pillow and forbade himself from crying.

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

The following morning, Sherlock awoke with a resolve to say something nice to Jon, even if just a simple greeting. With sleep came a new perspective, and he understood now why his feelings had been as visceral as they'd been, and he had perhaps overreacted. A bit. He could fix this. It was definitely time to fix this.

Taking courage in his mother’s words the night before, he quickly dressed, splashed cold water on his face, and set out to find Jon with a compliment at the ready to open with. Only, when he did find him, Jon wouldn’t meet his eyes. Curtailed, Sherlock retreated, and settled in to wait for a moment when Jon was more receptive. It would not do to antagonise Jon because the boy was just as stroppy as Sherlock on a bad day if so inclined.

Later that afternoon he tried again, only to be once more rebuked, and that evening when he tried a third time to approach Jon, his friend had seen him coming and abruptly turned and walked away in the opposite direction. Sherlock’s chest clenched and, unbidden, Jon's words from the other day floated up from the depths of his memory to haunt him.

_'Is it possible for a person to feel no love at all?'_

Tears stung Sherlock’s eyes and something like panic clawed at his ribcage. Jon hadn’t really thought him incapable of feeling had he? Did he already consider Sherlock a lost cause? He clutched at his chest, eyes wide and glistening with tears. It couldn't be possible... Jon _knew_ him. He wouldn't... he couldn't.... Sherlock swiped angrily at his eyes and took himself off to think.

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

Sherlock agonised his way through another restless night filled with visions of Jon stabbing him in the chest, or laughing in his face and turning away from him. With a start, Sherlock awoke, panting, and immediately decided he would apologise. He would do anything. This could not continue. Anything he could do to get Jon's friendship back, he would do. Jon was hurting, which oddly enough caused Sherlock pain, even though it was Jon who had first hurt _him_ , but perhaps he didn't realise he had hurt Sherlock and at that point it all seemed foolish. Sherlock had been rash but he really could fix this. Though he was loathe to explain his underlying reasonings for lashing out something had to be said. Perhaps he could keep it vague enough that Jon wouldn't ask questions.

Because, Sherlock swallowed, what if Jon _did_ ask questions? Was Sherlock ready to talk about... things? He felt the blood drain from his face. What if Jon mocked him? What if he were repulsed by- Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. No. No. He'd keep it vague, apologise, and they would be fine. There. Yes.

Sherlock sat up in bed and rubbed the ill-gotten sleep from his eyes. First thing that morning Sherlock would go straight to him with an apology. Oh, and the compliment. It never hurt to compliment Jon. Especially when he flushed so nicely each time. He turned and eyed the window; it was later than he’d thought. Jon would already be up. Right then. Plan established.

Quickly, he rushed through his morning routine and made his way towards the kitchen where he could hear his mother speaking, and whose words promptly ruined his plans.

“...take these loaves and give them to Milo’s family.” She paused, as did Sherlock out of view, and he heard her call, “Be safe and let us know their response.”

Sherlock’s breath stilled and the back of his neck prickled. No. Jon was going _back_? But he’d already gone once before! Response? What response would Sherlock’s _parents_ need? He ran his palms along his thighs and swallowed around a thick tongue, mentally pushing down a rising tide of anguish. Fear trickled cold through his insides and his heart beat loudly in his ears. ' _Surely not a proposition?_ ' his treacherous mind offered. He squeezed his eyes shut tight. Overreacting. Yes. No. Retreat.

For an hour, he watched the sun’s light move across the floor from where he sat in bed, staring. Reflecting. Rationalising. The short of it was this: he was being ridiculous. This whole thing was utterly ridiculous. He sat, hands folded under his chin trying to work out precisely why he was so upset because the fluctuating moods were going to drive him to insanity.

Really, who was he to care if Jon tied himself to that silly, boring, dull.… It’s just, the thought made his heart _hurt_. Because that’s what Jon had become if he were honest. Sherlock closed his eyes and flopped miserably back onto the bed. Jon had become the largest part of Sherlock’s heart. And if Milo took him away, it would be as if, silly as the notion was, she would take Sherlock’s heart away with her. He inhaled and closed his eyes against the crushing wave of despair that had been looming over him for weeks. A realisation that now rushed upon him, filling every space within Sherlock and flooding his lungs until he couldn't breathe. It was exhilarating and terrifying. Confusing and painful. Exciting and exhausting.

And there it was. That right there was the real issue he’d been touching upon, wasn’t it? It wasn’t necessarily Milo that Sherlock disliked. As a person, while able to prattle on for longer than strictly necessary, she was generally agreeable enough.

It was more… it didn’t actually matter whether or not it was Milo who had caught Jon’s eye, because ultimately, if it wasn’t her now, it would be someone else one day. Sherlock swallowed around a lump in his throat as his thoughts crystallised into full understanding. Eventually someone would find Jon. They would see what Sherlock did, which was how singularly wonderful Jon was. They would see how kind, how patient, how brave and at times foolhardy, though always well-intentioned. How thoughtful, how intelligent, and most fascinating, how contrary Jon could be. With a look Jon came across as a person who could be understood in a heartbeat. The really fascinating thing, though, was that he never was. Fully understood, rather, because the moment one thought Jon would go to go left, he went right. If Sherlock did something particularly odd, he would brace for a lecture or a stern warning, but then he would hear Jon chuckle instead, or look up to see him smirking fondly and it would always, always leave Sherlock feeling warm and… special. Cared for. Understood, and wasn’t that wonderful?

Sherlock’s smile twisted sadly across his lips. Jon was Sherlock’s puzzle, and one day, one day soon, Jon would… he would choose someone else to allow them to solve him. He would never… Jon wouldn’t let Sherlock… _have_ him. Sherlock curled onto his side and wrapped long arms around his knees in misery. He would lose Jon, one day. He would lose all of that one day to someone who couldn’t possibly understand or deserve Jon the way Sherlock did.

It was as if the very ground beneath Sherlock shuddered and the air in the room vanished. Jon. Sherlock wanted Jon to be… his. Alone.

Alcestis’ voice sharply jerked him from his revelations and he abruptly sat up, wiping his eyes. “Sherlock?” she called from the hall.

“Yes?” he called, hoarse. His head was spinning.

“Are you planning to grace us with your presence today?”

He hadn’t really thought to, no, especially now.

“I need you and Jon to weed the garden this afternoon. He’s waiting.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up and he tore aside the draperies at his door before being aware of having even moved.

“He’s back?” he demanded, breathless. Jon couldn’t possibly be back by now. Could he? No. Not unless he’d run both directions.

“Back?” She frowned, tilting her curly head. “He never left. Now get your lazy backside out there and help him. I tire of your moping.”

Sherlock slid around her and took off for the back door without a second’s hesitation, flying through the house until he came to the garden, and there was Jon. He was on his knees, sunlight glinting off his skin with the most attractive sort of glow, bent over a bed of cabbages. He was pulling weeds and discarding them into a pile to his left. Reach, pull, toss. Sherlock fought the intense urge to smile in relief.

He took a breath, calmed himself, pushed all thoughts from earlier into their specially designed space at the back of his mind, and carefully crossed the lawn to Jon’s side to kneel on the grass. Jon stiffened, only briefly pausing his rhythmic flicks, and continued. He, again, did not look at Sherlock.

Sherlock watched him from the corner of his eye and half-heartedly pulled at a weed near his knees. His heart was racing. He flicked a glance to his friend. “I thought you were gone,” he finally said.

Jon sighed, but shook his head. It was the most communication they’d exchanged in days, and it was truly pathetic how desperately Sherlock latched onto it.

Sherlock swallowed. “This morning, I heard something about bread. And. Milo.” He sneered through the last word.

Jon sighed louder this time, threw down a dirt-clodded weed clump, and turned to glare at him. Sherlock turned as well and held his gaze with wide eyes.

“Yes, and as you can see, I didn’t go.”

Sherlock frowned. “But then—”

“I was supposed to, as I was invited, but seeing as that sets you off every time, I asked Diodorus to in my stead, which, by the way, is incredibly rude, Sherlock, so you’re welcome, though I don’t know why I even care, considering…” he trailed off, pinching the bridge of his nose as if pained.

Sherlock’s heart thudded loudly in his chest, it even soared. Jon. He - he had refused, again, which meant he’d been invited. But he didn’t go. For _Sherlock_.

Jon stared at the ground near Sherlock’s knees, then returned to his task of weed pulling. Unable to look away, Sherlock stared at him and tried not to smile as that would probably not be good at the moment. He tugged at a stray shoot of something while sifting through a hundred different racing thoughts and still trying to catch Jon’s eye.

Jon turned his back instead.

The elation from moments before burst like a bubble. He inhaled to speak, but Jon hunched his shoulders, and Sherlock paused. With a jolt, he remembered that he was supposed to apologise and compliment Jon. Sherlock straightened, staring at the back of Jon's neck, which he noticed was getting darker now that he was staying out more and more as the days warmed. ' _Lead with a complement,'_ he thought. Something like that. Jon had lovely skin. He was lovely. Yes.

"You have lo- " he froze. He had been about to tell Jon he was beautiful! No, no, no, something else! Stupid. _Focus_. "You're... um... " Jon slowly turned, brow arched, looking as if he were simply daring Sherlock to antagonise him. Sherlock shrunk back. "I mean you are, good at," he gestured to the garden. "This? Weeds, I mean."

Sherlock winced. Gods above. What was _wrong_ with him? Weeds???

Jon stared back, nonplussed, and again turned away.

" _No_ , I mean, well yes, you're good but that doesn't matter. It's stupid."

Jon sighed and shook his head. He rose onto his feet intending to walk away.

Sherlock panicked and reached towards him. "No, wait! I mean, it's stupid because it doesn't matter. Weeds. I meant you're good at, well, everything in general."

Jon halted his steps but didn't turn around.

"I simply mean," Sherlock swallowed, hating himself for his fumbling idiocy. "I mean, you try with everything you do, and you're good at everything. Because you make the effort, because you... care. And it shows." 

Jon slowly turned to look at him.

Sherlock's heart beat loudly in his chest. "You're just good. You're... better. Than me." Sherlock pursed his lips. "Well, not at everything. I'm obviously better than you at mathematics and physics-"

Jon groaned and his lips looked as if they were trying to smile. "You should have stopped while you were ahead." He turned and marched off.

"Wait, no, I'm sorry! I couldn't help that. I _am_ sorry. Jon?"

Jon disappeared around the corner of the house and Sherlock doubled over on his knees, mortified. He startled at a throat clearing itself, and he looked up into the amused eyes of his mother, who was lounging in the doorway of the kitchen.

"Oh, Sherlock." She shook her head, fighting off a smile. Sherlock scowled. "When you're finished pulling those weeds I have another task for you." She threw him an arch look and twirled away back into the house.

 

It turned out that she had many tasks. Alcestis put the pair of them to work for the rest of the afternoon, most of which they spent separated. But when they were working together, Sherlock tried his best to catch Jon’s eye as often as possible, which usually led to him doing whatever chore he’d been assigned poorly, so that Jon would have to fix it, for which Sherlock apologised about profusely and hoped that Jon understood that he meant it for everything.

At dinner that night, Jon had sat next to him, which made Sherlock’s heart beat a little faster, and when Sherlock asked him to pass a dish of peas, their fingers brushed. Sherlock looked up to him with a small smile but was dismayed to see how sad Jon looked. Under the table, Sherlock reached over and dared to run his fingertips along Jon’s side. Jon closed his eyes and reached for a loaf of bread, viciously tearing off the end, before passing it along.

Diodorus, who was chattering on about something involving circling hawks, had returned earlier that evening, and Sherlock had been itching with curiosity to ask about what his mother had requested of Milo’s parents. He suspected that whatever he’d reported had been the cause of his father sneaking odd, contemplative looks at Jon all evening, which made Jon’s neck turn a little red, which Sherlock decided he did not like at all.

As soon as the meal was finished, Jon excused himself for bed, and Sherlock immediately followed. He still had yet to impress his apology to Jon directly. His roundabout methods had not sunken in and he couldn’t stand to see that sad look on Jon’s face any longer. Jon never deserved to have sadness in his life again. Sherlock had promised he would take care of Jon, and right now he was failing miserably.

Ahead of him, Jon walked quickly, obviously trying to avoid another encounter, but Sherlock would not be brushed off this time.

“Jon,” he whispered, fingers stretching out to snag the fabric at his back. Jon hissed and turned.

“ _Goodnight_ , Sherlock.”

“No, Jon, please.”

“What?” he snapped, moving into Sherlock’s space, looking every inch the angry warrior who usually fought for Sherlock, rather than against. Sherlock’s breath hitched.

“I…” he froze. Jon was so close. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I mean, Jon, I’m…” the words disappeared. Stupid. Frustrating. Just _apologise_. He frowned at himself.

Jon sighed and shook his head. “You’re what? Irritating? Hurtful? Spoiled? Pick one.”

Sherlock blinked and took a step back. Jon winced and his shoulders drooped. He looked at the floor in the dark hall separating their rooms. When he spoke, Sherlock had to strain his ears to listen.

“Why? Just why?”

Sherlock swallowed again. “I…” ‘ _I don’t know, or, possibly I love you, but I’m sorry either way.’_ No. That wouldn’t do at all.

Jon swore and turned on his heel.

“I’m sorry!” Sherlock whispered fiercely, stepping towards him.

Jon stopped in his doorway, back ramrod straight, fists clenched into balls at his side. “For?”

Again, words were failing him. Or, at least ones he could voice aloud.

Jon shook his head then flung aside the curtains to his room and disappeared into the darkness. Sherlock stood in the hall, wringing his hands. With a groan he shuffled off to his own room, miserable. He stared at his bed in the moonlight while Jon’s cruel words from days before echoed again through his head.

' _Is it possible for a person to feel no love at all?'_

Sherlock closed his eyes. He was a coward. His chest constricted, his skin was clammy, his stomach twisted in knots. Jon hadn’t really meant it, had he? Sherlock had been given the perfect opportunity to show Jon it wasn’t true, to take it back, yet he hadn’t. It would take the simplest of words to set everything right, to show that he did care for Jon, he was just… an _idiot_. A confused, foolish idiot, who wanted something he could never have and he had failed once again and hurt Jon further.

This was intolerable. He wanted his friend back. Sherlock took a cleansing breath and nodded in the darkness. He could do this. Softly, he turned and padded out of his room and away down the hall, pausing to listen for his parents. There were no further sounds in the rest of the house which meant they had retired to their chambers, so Sherlock continued on. He would beg forgiveness. He would, and he wouldn’t leave Jon’s room until he had it. Sherlock _did_ have a heart, and whether or not Jon knew exactly how much of it belonged to Jon, Sherlock would make sure he understood that he was important to him. He would apologise, and at the very least, Jon would be his friend once more. Yes. That was all he could hope for, and that was better than nothing.

Jon was on his side in bed, but from the way his shoulders rose and fell, he wasn’t asleep. Swiftly, Sherlock crossed the room, footsteps whispering across the chilly stone floor, and before he could re-think everything and lose his nerve, he slipped under the covers and plastered himself to Jon’s back. His hands slid around Jon’s waist, and he felt his friend go stiff against him, but did not pull away. Relief was like a physical wave washing over him, and he pressed his face between Jon’s shoulder blades. He shook his head back and forth, pulling Jon closer, and then Sherlock was babbling.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Jon, forgive me, please, I’m an idiot, and you… you’re… I’m sorry. You’re right, please.”

Sherlock’s fingers wound themselves in the sheets surrounding Jon’s warm, nude body (a very bad distraction, but one he would work around) and to his surprise, Jon suddenly twisted in his arms and clung back just as fiercely. Sherlock swallowed back a sob and pressed his face into Jon’s throat and wrapped himself more tightly around his friend. Without thinking, he kissed Jon’s neck, his cheeks, his shoulders, his nose, anything but his lips because that would be too much for him to stop, and murmured his apology over and over. _Philia_. Jon had suggested that Sherlock couldn’t love his friend, and the wrongness of that statement soured and curdled within until he was blurting out, “I can love, I can love, I _can_.” His cheeks, or possibly Jon’s, were damp. “ _Philia_. You said I couldn’t, how can you…” he sniffed, horrified to realise the wetness had been coming from himself, and Jon hugged him back as if he couldn’t stop. He nuzzled the side of Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock wanted to capture this moment, this feeling of utter joy that it caused, and keep it forever.

“You’re such a fucking child, Sherlock,” Jon panted against his cheek, shaking his head, and gripping his back. “Just because, for once, you weren't the centre of attention? Why would you do that to me? How could you even think—”

“I was jealous!” Sherlock went limp in his arms at the admission and waited for Jon to chastise and laugh at him. Imbecile. Foolish, foolish idiot. That was not what he should have said.

Jon froze and then heaved a long-suffering sigh. “You’re so stupid.”

There it was. Sherlock’s heart began to crack and he started to pull away, but then Jon pulled him impossibly closer. His lips brushed Sherlock’s ear, and warm breath danced along his jaw. Sherlock shivered and swallowed a gasp.

“Jealous? How can you be?” he whispered against the shell of his ear. Sherlock’s breath stilled. “Why be jealous when you know I prefer you to every person who has ever lived, and ever will?”

And like that, Sherlock’s fears evaporated into a mist that floated away, and he expelled a great rush of air into Jon’s neck. His hands slid over Jon’s back, and his thigh pushed between Jon’s, needing to be closer. Jon’s lips brushed along his ear, his cheek, his jaw, and Sherlock melted into his touch. His stomach fluttered, and his face heated, but gods Jon felt better than anything in the world. And he preferred _Sherlock_. A smiled stretched his face, and he kissed Jon’s cheek again. Jon chuckled and wrapped his arms around his friend, shaking his head. In Jon's arms he felt safe, felt his fears quickly sliding away — well, all but the one that niggled away at the back of his mind until Sherlock whispered it into the dark.

“Do you really think I cannot love?”

Jon immediately clutched him tighter. “No. No, what I said was awful, Sherlock, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t—”

“Of course not, no.”

Sherlock nuzzled his neck, sighing with relief. “Promise.” He kissed Jon’s throat. “Promise you don’t.”

Jon kissed his nose and nuzzled back. “I know you have a heart.”

‘ _It’s yours. It’s all yours, Jon._ ’ Sherlock thought with giddy abandon, but not yet brave enough to admit it aloud. “Yes.”

They lay together entwined, emotionally exhausted, and Sherlock was buzzing with pleasure and relief. Jon didn’t hate him. Jon didn’t think him heartless, which was at least a start. Their friendship was again secure. Sherlock’s fingers traced shapes against Jon’s warm skin, and he thought that even if this were all he could ever have, he would take it. He’d said he loved Jon, but Jon didn’t know just how deep his regard for him went. He smiled into Jon’s skin as something like hope bloomed within. The way Jon held him now, perhaps… perhaps one day he could even – Sherlock cut the thought off. Too much. He immediately dismissed those thoughts as something to be pondered later. Besides, he would need much more proof before even allowing himself to think… no. This, here, was fine for now. Better than.

“Were you really jealous?” Jon whispered into his curls.

Sherlock pouted. “Yes.”

Jon laughed, and Sherlock enjoyed the shake of his body against his. “You’re hopeless, and you need to stop that.”

“I can’t help it.”

He could feel Jon smile against him. “So I’ve noticed.”

Sherlock wriggled down to get more comfortable and closed his eyes with his arm slung over Jon’s waist and his left leg trapped between Jon’s. He was still wearing his chitonisko, but Jon wore nothing, and that thought alone sent another round of shivers along his spine. Jon squeezed his arms around him once.

Sherlock sighed. “I cannot change my innate nature, Jon. And I’m not ready for you to... to leave.”

“You can, and you’d better. I’m not going to— wait, what? Where am I going?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Well, I suspect Milo was… her family invited you to keep returning, surely you’re not that thick.”

Jon’s silence suggested otherwise.

Sherlock sighed. “Her parents were contriving your betrothal.”

Jon went tense against him. “You don’t know that.”

“I’m almost certain I do.”

Sherlock listened to the sound of Jon’s hair scraping across the pillow as his head shook. “I doubt it. But even still,” Sherlock huffed, indignant, “you have got to stop throwing a tantrum every time I help someone with an injury, or pay a compliment where it is due. Some of us are nice, and we enjoy being nice to others.”

“Waste of time.”

Jon flicked his shoulder and Sherlock hissed. “Jealous arse.”

Sherlock grinned and relaxed into Jon’s embrace, fully ready to put this whole ordeal behind them and sleep. Which he could do now that Jon had forgiven him.

“You know," Jon continued around a yawn, "my being nice is going to be very helpful for you in future, so I’d suggest you accept it.”

Sherlock hummed and lightly touched his lips to Jon’s collarbones in response. With Jon warm around him, the earth beneath him righted itself once more, and Sherlock drifted off to the feeling of Jon’s fingers in his hair, his breath against his temple, and his heart at peace once more.

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I've gotten a few messages asking if I'm going to continue. Please don't be worried. I have been in the process of moving across the Atlantic, and it's a little daunting and time-consuming. The first book is about 96% finished, minus editing. So, this will not be abandoned; just please be patient with updates. They will be coming. :) And thank you for the comments and enthusiasm.
> 
> Also, quick historical note: I did purposefully play with the marriage angst a bit for the sake of this story, but in reality I doubt that poor Jon would've been an actual prospect for Milo, given he was still in his teens, only literally being considered a man, and also he had no home or profession of his own to offer support for her. Sherlock is just, you know, a drama queen. ;)


	6. Book I, Chapter vi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now, erections.

The morning dawned bright and golden, and Sherlock slowly drifted up into consciousness. A smile curved his lips as he registered the facts that he was warm and comfortable with arms and legs wrapped around him. Warm breath was puffing across his neck, and his smile grew so large his cheeks twinged. Jon had forgiven him. He had said that Sherlock would always be his favourite person, and here was the proof nestled sweetly against him. Sherlock exhaled with great satisfaction and wriggled closer to the sleeping body lying half atop his— and then he gasped and held very, very still. His heart tripped over itself and the back of his neck flashed hot then cold.

Sensation.

 _Physical_ sensation. Proximity. Sherlock closed his eyes and carefully eased his hips out from under Jon's, cursing the god Priapus. One day, several weeks back, Diodorus had given them the most humiliating, and thankfully brief, lecture since they'd known him. The long and the short of it was about their bodies, specifically their penises, and how they should expect to notice certain, ah, changes with them soon. One of those changes would be waking up with morning erections, and that they should not be ashamed if they did. They were simply boys transitioning into men. It was just one of those things. Biology.

Sherlock could honestly say he was not prepared to have his first morning erection with the object of his newly discovered affections lying _on top_ of him and so close to said erection. He swallowed a groan as that thought made his penis throb with heat and Sherlock very much needed to flee immediately.

Gently, very gently, Sherlock untangled his legs from Jon and slowly eased his way out from under the sleeping boy. He was just slipping him off his shoulder when Jon mumbled sleepily and wrapped surprisingly strong arms around his waist. When Jon slid a sleep-warm leg between his, Sherlock choked at the exquisite feel of a thigh brushing against his remarkably sensitive penis, and he jerked back, alarmed. His entire body lit up with prickling tingles. His stomach dipped with an intense swoon and the feel of Jon against him was wonderful. He swallowed around a thick tongue and tried not to think about the way Jon absently rubbed his face against his chest. Against a nipple that was growing stiff. Jon's fingers curled into the chitonisko he'd slept in, and thank the gods he had, because if he'd slept naked beneath Jon... Sherlock bit off a moan and was immediately surprised by this near instant reaction. At how deeply aroused he was becoming.

Abandoning all pretences of quietly slipping away, Sherlock roughly pulled away from Jon, and all but ran from the room. His heart pounded while trying to sort through a combination of surprise, lust, and embarrassment. Inside his room, he looked down to the obvious tenting at his groin. It wasn't that he'd never touched himself before. But previously, the few times he had, he'd done so with purpose. It was another experiment.

This, however, was the first time it had happened without conscious thought. Or permission. With a frown, he sat upon the edge of his mattress and tentatively lifted the fabric away from his lap to stare down at his flushed member. Abstractly, he noted it looked a bit larger than he'd recalled at any other time. He had been cataloguing it's recent growth with no small amount of pride. Sherlock bit his lip, checked that his curtains were still drawn, and gripped himself loosely in his hand. He hissed and slammed his eyes shut at the immediate sensation overwhelming him. It was...ohhh. Sherlock tightened his grip and pulled slowly up towards the tip. It hadn't ever felt this good before.

Unbidden, the sense memory of Jon lying heavy atop him, flashed before his eyes and crackled along his skin and Sherlock stifled a gasp. He quickened his stroke and began trembling as lust curled through his body. How long had he lain beneath Jon with an erection? Shame and desire spiked through his abdomen and he wondered if Jon had felt him. Sherlock's mouth dropped open and he squeezed his prick at the thought. Gods, what if he'd known? What if Jon had been lying there and had felt Sherlock's hardness beneath him?

Sherlock pressed his lips together and felt the growing burn of orgasm begin to coil through his insides. He was ashamed at how this fantasy of Jon was helping him to reach release, but the pleasure was unlike any he'd ever brought to himself before. Ah, he was so close. Liquid pearls were leaking steadily from the tip, easing the quick slide against his flesh. It was, frankly, blissful, and he released a small moan before catching himself and jamming his lips shut. As good as it felt it would be mortifying if anyone were to catch him like this. Like Jon. His prick throbbed at the idea and _oh gods_ he was close. What if Jon _did_ catch him? He gasped, and the final memory of his thigh rubbing Sherlock, firm and slow beneath the sheets, had Sherlock throwing back his head in a silent scream, spine lighting up with pleasure and ejaculating over his fingers and onto the rumpled fabric at his chest.

He shook with a sort of aftershock, as if his body experienced its own kind of earthquake, and breathed heavily through his mouth. His eyes closed as a heavily lassitude settled over his lax muscles and he carefully slowed his strokes before stopping altogether with a hiss at the extreme sensitivity.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock jolted in surprise and hastily slid under the covers, wincing as his ejaculate smeared along the sheets and his arm.

A moment later, Jon pushed through the drapes over his doorway, rubbing sleepy eyes. Sherlock held his breath and tried to look as innocent as possible.

Jon padded into his room with a slight frown marring his brow. His voice was hoarse with sleep, and even though Sherlock desperately wanted him to leave so he could clean up, Jon was absolutely adorable in the mornings and he enjoyed the sight.

"Why did you leave?" He flopped down onto the edge of the mattress and bent forward with elbows on his knees and hands on his face.

"I... I didn't want to wake you."

Jon snorted. "So you bolted up, kicking me in the process to come sleep in here?" His teeth chattered and he suddenly shook with a full-body convulsion. "The chill in here!" He scowled down at Sherlock as if he'd purposefully made it cold. "It was much warmer in my bed."

Sherlock bit back an hysterical laugh. "Yes it was."

Jon simply shook his head and stretched. He was wearing the bottom half of his tunic, leaving his back and chest bare, and even though he had just climaxed a moment before, Sherlock felt that increasingly-present feeling of arousal sharpen when he looked at Jon. His cheeks flushed and he looked away.

Jon ruffled his hair again and smacked his lips. "I am hungry." He slapped Sherlock's hip through the sheet. "Get up. Let's eat."

Sherlock took a second and pretended to stretch as well. "Fine. I'll be out in a moment, then."

Jon nodded and padded back out towards the dining hall, and Sherlock let out a breath of relief. He lifted the covers to glare at the mess beneath. He would need to scrub the spots away before they stained. With a sigh he also resigned himself to wearing loincloths habitually from there on out, as Jon already did. They were hateful, miserable things, and Sherlock loathed the tediousness of wrapping them, but he was nearly fifteen now. He supposed needs must.

With that, he slipped out of bed and began his morning ablutions as quickly as possible so as to join Jon without adding any suspicion. Close calls aside, he felt today would turn out to be wonderful. After all, Jon was his friend again.

  

-*- φιλία -*-

 

Sherlock felt lighter than he had in weeks, and he greeted his mother with an enthusiastic kiss at the table. His father was likewise in a good mood, and the day was almost disgustingly cheery.

From her seat, Alcestis fairly glowed as she looked back and forth between the boys.

"You're both in much finer spirits today," she chirped, reaching for the clay pot of honey.

Jon swallowed around a mouthful of bread and nodded. "Sherlock decided to stop being dim."

Septimius snorted across the table and Sherlock scowled.

"Well, thank the gods for that," his mother replied. She reached over and ruffled Sherlock's curls. He swatted her away and attempted to flatten them back to the way he had them. Jon beamed at the both of them.

His father cleared his throat and smiled over at Jon. "I hear you performed a service for the daughter of Theron." His grin turned rakish. "I hear she was most impressed by your swift attentions."

And just like that, Sherlock's sunny day clouded over. Beside him, he felt Jon stiffen as well, and he shot him a quick look.

"It was nothing. Anyone with the ability would have done the same."

Alcestis reached over to take Jon's hand, her eyes shining with pride and affection. "But it was _our_ Jon, not just anyone. We are very proud of you."

Jon ducked his head, and Sherlock watched as a blush suffused his cheeks.

"As would your father be," Septimius added fondly.

Jon nodded and met Septimius's eye. "Thank you."

Septimius reached for his silver cup and raised it to his lips. "Diodorus also extolled your praises." Jon snorted, and slowly Sherlock began to relax. "Theron says you are welcome to visit them... any time." His father met Jon's gaze again and Sherlock felt it looked horribly weighted.

He bit his tongue and reached for his own roll of sweet bread. "Yes, yes, Jon is going to be a brilliant physician one day and save us all, won't you, Jon?"

His friend chuckled beside him. "I'll do my best."

Septimius finished his drink and leaned back to look at the boys. "And now, I have news for the both of you, Though," he threw his youngest son a sardonic look, "I suspect Jon will enjoy it more than you, Sherlock."

"Oh?"

"There will be a visiting athlete who is said to have trained scores of Athens' most notable warriors and Olympic champions." He grinned at Jon. "Including Callipus."

Jon inhaled. Sherlock shifted in his seat having no idea what that meant.

His father grinned. "I've arranged for the pair of you to join his classes next week while he is here."

"Oh, sir," Jon breathed, eyes filled with joy. "That is... _thank you_."

Sherlock murmured vague gratitude as well, though his father had been right. He was not nearly as enthused as Jon. Septimius rose from the table.

"Take advantage of this Jon. No doubt should you choose to pursue life as a military officer, this would look very well to your experience."

Sherlock frowned even while Jon practically radiated excitement beside him. That was another thing he needed to work on. Ridding Jon of this ridiculous notion of his going off to be a soldier. He scoffed.

"We're to spend the week training in athletics when we could be studying Aristotle?"

Jon elbowed him. "Hush. This is a very great thing your father has done, and we'll both honour it by being grateful and showing respect."

Alcestis laughed and patted her son's shoulder. "Cheer up, Sherlock. At the very least you can bask in the glory of Jon showing all the others up on the pitch."

Jon rose from the table with a spring, and swooped down to kiss Alcestis with a loud smack before draping himself over her shoulders. "Thank you, Alcestis." Jon stuck his tongue out at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes. "She likes me better than you, you know."

Alcestis swatted him with another laugh, and Sherlock feigned annoyance even as his heart warmed at the sight they made. Her easy and complete affection made Jon so happy and it was obvious the pair adored each other. Jon may have lost his natural mother, but Hera had certainly blessed him with another.

"Yes, I know."

"Nonsense." she replied. "I love you both the same."

Jon's lips parted and Sherlock watched as his eyes glossed over. Jon pressed his face into her neck, murmuring something for her ears only, and Alcestis closed her eyes with a smile.

"I know, my love." She tilted her head back to kiss his cheek, and then stood up. "Now then. I hope the two of you finished every task on my list yesterday. If not, see to it and then you may enjoy your last day of rest before this great warrior brings pain to your limbs."

Sherlock groaned and flopped over, pressing his face into his forearms. Jon had better appreciate this, because Sherlock certainly wouldn't.

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

Diodorus insisted on leading them to their first session at the informal gymnasium, stating that it was his responsibility as their primary tutor to see them safely to their supplementary lessons. He also admitted his own fascination.

"A wise man will readily defer to those whose knowledge exceeds their own. Much as I can discuss military tactics and histories, I'm afraid practical application has never been my specialty."

When they arrived, Sherlock's eyes skimmed each attendant boy, most of whom he knew or had at least met, and none of whom were quite old enough to enter the Academy. Jon wasted no time going over to the gathered group in greeting. Diodorus gave Sherlock a shove and gestured towards them. With a sigh, Sherlock reluctantly left his side to obey.

Among those in attendance were Androcles and his infuriating cousin, Alcaeus, as well as Milos' brother Mino. There were a few whose names he'd never bothered to learn, a boy Sherlock had met twice named Sebastos, and, surprisingly, a childhood friend of Mycroft's, Grigórios. Sherlock went over to say hello, curious as to why the older man would be joining them. Either way, Sherlock planned to re-introduce himself. Mycroft had told him that Grigórios was now an officer in the Athenian military and was recently promoted to Battalion Leader. And while Athens didn't strictly have any sort of law enforcement, Grigórios was pushing for some sort of organisational group to guard the city on a smaller scale.

"Athena protect me, is that little Sherlock grown tall striding my way?" The young man smiled and loped towards Sherlock with crinkled eyes. His skin was much darker than Sherlock recalled, and his hair was already beginning to streak with silver belying his youthful appearance.

"Grigórios, it has been many years."

The two young men shook hands and were just settling in for what Sherlock supposed would be the most decent conversation he'd get in the coming weeks, when a loud voice called for quiet.

Grigórios gestured towards the group, and the pair met up with Jon to join the others just as a smaller boy with dark hair and eyes silently snuck into the group, skirting the outer edges. Sherlock flicked his eyes over him, curious, before turning his attention towards the front. Jon arched his neck to peer past the others, when a tall, well-muscled man beamed down at the dozen faces staring back at him.

"Good morning, students."

"Good morning," the boys chorused.

"My name is Cleitomachus," Jon's hand shot out to grip Sherlock's wrist and his eyes grew very round. Apparently, that name meant something to Jon. "And I welcome you to my gymnasium. Let us first begin by arranging a formation that I will expect each of you to return to every morning for the duration of the course."

And so, they were ordered according to height in three rows of four. Jon was fortunately placed just before Sherlock who stood in the last row being one of the tallest present. Cleitomachus went on to briefly outline his background and achievements, which, Sherlock had to agree were fairly impressive. They were then given a quick schedule of what was to be learned and expected of them. They would be covering proper fighting stances, military terminology and philosophy, a rigorous daily exercise regime they were expected to learn, in addition to practical combat manoeuvres, swordsmanship, javelins, and even a little archery. Sherlock looked forward to the archery.

Grigórios was introduced as a sort of local assistant, and immediately became a favourite among the younger boys.

The day began with introductions all around, Sherlock learned the latecomer was a newly arrived boy named Morsimus, and was then followed by learning their daily exercise regime, which Sherlock internally complained about and thought merciless. By the end of their forty-five minute long session, he was a panting, sweating mess of soreness. Jon, though much fitter than he, was even red-faced and strained, but, oh how well he wore it.

They were given a brief break for water and rest, and then their gymnast broke them up into three groups for sparring. They were walked through feet and body placement, and Sherlock quickly picked up the terminology. It was exceedingly dull, and the only thing that made it bearable was sneaking glances at Jon and taking pleasure in how excited and earnest he was.

Sherlock's first round, unsurprisingly, had him losing quickly, and he happily sat back to watch the others. It was immediately apparent that Jon was the best of the group, and Sherlock took it in with no small amount of pride, flushing with pleasure at how well he was received. Cleitomachus, a man who stood at least six feet, and rippled with muscles from his calves to the tops of his shoulders, rewarded Jon with a one-on-one sparring session that made Sherlock a bit nervous to watch. The man was a behemoth, and Jon only just cleared five feet and four inches this year. Even still, Jon threw himself into the session and did very well for himself despite the odds. At the end, their tutor laughed and slapped Jon on the back to much applause, and Jon ducked his head with a self-conscious grin.

Sherlock may, in fact, love him.

The rest of the day saw them getting acquainted with weapons and proper use, storage, and handling. They ran out of time before they got to the bows, which Sherlock sulked about the entire way home. Well, when he wasn't wincing and moaning about how sore he was.

The group was scheduled to meet every other day for the next month. An entire month! Sherlock was less than pleased. Jon, however, felt the complete opposite.

"And then, did you notice how he always hit his mark with a spear?"

Diodorus smiled at the boy's enthusiasm and nodded. "It was very impressive. His credentials are outstanding, and I've no doubt you will learn much from him."

Sherlock scoffed. "I would rather not spend an entire month sweating and rolling around in the dirt with Sebastos, personally."

Jon turned to him and gripped his shoulders, halting their steps. "It's brilliant though, Sherlock. You did very well today, even though I know you weren't enjoying it much. Cleitomachus said you had a brain that would do very well as a strategist."

Sherlock flushed at the compliment but waved it aside. Unconsciously, he leaned closer to Jon and raised his own hands to his shoulders. "And you outshone them all. I daresay you're the rising star in this course."

Jon darted forward and wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist, bringing him into his side and urging them onward. Sherlock took advantage by leaning on him the rest of the way home.

At supper they had recounted the day to his parents, with Diodorus adding commentary here and there, and Jon didn't cease his ramblings even while Sherlock moved about the washroom to get ready for sleep. After his turn, Jon had returned to Sherlock's room, continuing to extoll the many talents of Cleitomachus, what he thought they might learn at the next class, should he bring his father's old, bronze xiphos, and on and on until surprising Sherlock by sliding under the covers with him.

That night, Sherlock wore a loincloth to bed, but as per usual, Jon had stripped nude. He shivered in the cool sheets and crept close to Sherlock, snuggling in. Sherlock's skin tingled where Jon was pressed against it, and he took a deep breath to calm himself. Jon's proximity was becoming more and more troubling the more Sherlock desired it.

Jon rolled onto his side and slid his arm around Sherlock's waist, tucking his nose in just behind Sherlock's ear. He breathed in and exhaled warmly into his neck, and Sherlock shivered.

"You smell good," Jon murmured. His leg slipped over Sherlock's thigh, and Sherlock bit his tongue to hold in the gasp that wanted to escape. Perhaps this wasn't a good idea after all.

"Relax," Jon breathed, and then chuckled. "You need your rest. Tomorrow, you'll really be feeling those exercises."

Sherlock huffed. "Me? You will too. Don't think I didn't see you wincing and puffing."

Jon hummed. "Well, perhaps a bit."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and slid a hand over the arm around his waist. He took a final deep breath, forcing his body to relax and slow its rhythms. Fortunately, he was just exhausted enough to obey, and soon they both dropped off into blessed oblivion.

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

True enough, the following day, Sherlock felt as if his body had been run over by a chariot _and_ a team of horses. As soon as sleep pulled away he had stretched and then yelped at the blossoming of full body pain.

"Joooon," he moaned, wincing and trying to hold as still as possible.

Still dozing at his side, Jon huffed a laugh, then immediately gasped. Sherlock smirked.

"That's what you get for... _oh gods_. I hurt everywhere. We cannot possibly get out of bed."

Alcestis took that moment to sweep into the room, and Sherlock was profoundly grateful that the combination of pain and his foresight in wearing a loincloth ensured his modesty that morning.

"Do I hear the groans of sore boys still abed?" The blessed woman, goddess of goddesses, had entered with a large, fragrantly steaming vessel, and wide strips of cloth draped over her arms. Carefully she set the vessel down onto the floor, and gently eased herself next to her son.

"I imagine you'll be wanting these wrapped around stiff muscles. It will help you to loosen up just in time to go to Diodorus. What fortunate timing."

"Genius. Queen. Nymph of mercy," Jon breathed, utter adoration in his eyes.

Alcestis laughed and began soaking the strips of fabric in the hot water at her feet. "Yes, yes. Now, get out of that bed and come sit before me, the both of you. I'll not have you soaking that mattress until it goes foul." As one, they both groaned and whimpered. " _Out_."

Though the pain was excruciating, once they'd finally managed to slither their way onto the floor, (Jon covering his lap with the corner of a sheet) they were rewarded with the sweet relief of steaming linens, whose heat soaked into their stiff muscles, easing their suffering. Sherlock thought he had, perhaps, the most brilliant mother who'd ever been born.

 

By the end of the first week, Sherlock was tired. He was irritable. He was, admittedly, a bit jealous. And he had reached the end of his limited patience. It was the final day of their first week, and Cleitomachus was about to release them, and Sherlock decided he would not be back.

"I mean it, Jon. This is pointless."

Jon frowned after him, wiping his brow with the rag he'd brought from home. "Your father went to a lot of trouble for this, Sherlock. And we're going to have to begin formal training soon besides."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and winced from where he stretched his hamstrings on the ground. "He did not, and I will not. And anyway, I never said you had to stop coming."

Jon groaned and closed his eyes in bliss as he reached over to grip his toes and pulled. Stretching at the end of their 'lessons' had become the one thing Sherlock had grown to like. "You're just upset because you're rubbish at sparring."

"I am not rubbish. I simply choose not to engage in barbaric, fruitless exercises that ultimately do nothing for me."

That, and if he had to keep watching Jon wrestling the others, nude and gleaming, day in and day out, he was going to completely embarrass himself beyond all redemption. He understood he had a 'type' now, and it was decidedly masculine. And mostly Jon-shaped. And Jon's shape was changing into something so very, very pleasing.

He shook his head and hissed, folding his calves up under his bum to stretch his quadriceps. "At any rate, I'm sure you'll be pleased to get me out of your hair. Between Sebastos, Androcles, and that oaf, Alcaeus, I'm at my wit's end and we'll be fighting before the next week is out." He rubbed his jaw at a memory and squinted. "Alcaeus has a horrible right hook, and I don't look forward to seeing if it's gotten worse over the years."

Jon grumbled, reaching an arm over his neck and tugged. "I would put him in the ground first. He knows better than to touch you."

Sherlock's face quickly heated and his belly quivered. Sherlock knew he was possessive of Jon, but Jon could be just as much so of him. Each time he'd had to come to Sherlock's defence this week, inevitably after Sherlock had mouthed off to someone, Sherlock had taken a secret thrill in watching Jon puff up and look menacing. All for him.

"Even so." He moaned and flopped onto his back. "I'm in the middle of researching the Middle Egyptian dynasty. I cannot be bothered with swords, and spears, and how to move my feet around an opponent." He frowned. "I know where to move my feet. Away. Running the opposite direction."

Jon laughed and flopped back beside him. Sherlock softly smiled.

"Gods, you have no inclination for self-preservation do you? I'm going to have to protect you for life, at this rate."

Sherlock rolled his head, staring at Jon's profile. "I certainly hope so," he murmured.

A shadow fell over them, and Sherlock squinted up into the face of Cleitomachus. His thick, rough hands were settled at his waist, and he was grinning down at the pair of them. Sherlock and Jon rose up onto their elbows.

"How are you doing, lads? Individual reports."

Jon smiled, and scrambled up onto his sandalled feet, taking care to stand tall. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but likewise stood up.

"A bit sore, sir, but already eager for next week."

Objectively, Cleitomachus was what Sherlock could call, attractive. The man was tall, thick as a tree, with dark, wavy locks worn longer than the typical fashion. His skin was preternaturally dark. Like the tan one got in the deepest part of summer, though it seemed his skin didn't mind which season it was. Sherlock rather thought the man stayed dark year-round. He had soft, brown eyes, which he'd also noticed seemed to linger on Jon much more often than the others. It made his hackles bristle, if he were honest. Which wasn't surprising. Anyone who looked at Jon these days seemed to set Sherlock off. He really needed to get a handle on that. It was as horribly distracting as it was unbecoming.

Jon now stared up at him with something like, Sherlock internally cringed, adoration. He was everything Jon thought ideal in a soldier. In a warrior. He was probably who Jon wanted to one day be. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth and he twisted away from the pair and towards the clumps of boys scattering for the day.

Androcles and his cousin were already gone, the younger ones in the front row were chattering to their nursemaids and mothers who'd come to meet them. The new boy, however, was engaged in deep conversation with Sebastos. He'd watched as the two started to develop a tentative friendship. Morsimus. Sherlock let his eyes take in the details of his posture, his clothing. His oddly stony expression. The boy was fascinating. He had tried to speak to Sherlock only once, and the way his eyes had roved over his body left Sherlock entirely certain that he was also like Sherlock, perhaps in more ways than one. Thankfully, he'd not tried to... pursue anything. Though, Sherlock would, at the very least, welcome a chance to learn more about him. Not, physically, of course. The idea of doing, well, anything with someone other than Jon made him break out into a cold sweat. Especially Morsimus. He was a bit like a snake. Something stirred a deep sense of caution when Sherlock looked into his hollow, black eyes. So, yes, objectively he was interesting. The way he watched others was familiar, because he did the same thing himself. He suspected Morsimus was vastly intelligent, which would make for a nice change of pace considering the mouth-breathing general population of his peers. Jon aside.

It was the lack of any kind of warmth in Morsimus that warned him off, though. Also, Jon hated him. Said he simply 'had a feeling.' Sherlock shook his head and turned back to Jon, more than ready to leave.

"Not sure about Sherlock, however."

Sherlock blinked. "What about me?

Cleitomachus turned to him with raised brows. "Am I losing you already? It has only been one week."

Sherlock shuffled on his feet, suddenly self-conscious under the taller man's gaze.

Jon snorted. "Sherlock is more, er, academically inclined."

The gymnast let his eyes quickly scan over him from toe to crown, and the man's throat bobbed with a swallow. "Yes, I imagine he is." He turned back to Jon with a grin. "Though, as long as I get to keep you, Jon. I haven't had such a fine pupil in a long while. I imagine with proper training you could be legendary. The Academy should be anxious to acquire you."

As the man had spoken, he'd leaned in towards Jon just the slightest bit. Not in a threatening way, but it irritated Sherlock none the less.

Jon stared up into his eyes and fidgeted. His cheeks tinted with pink and he smiled. "I suppose one day we shall see."

Sherlock cleared his throat and clapped Jon on the back. "Well, I at least thank you for the time you did grant me and I wish you the best. No doubt Jon will keep me updated. Have a pleasant evening, sir."

He shoved Jon and tugged him along, ready to be away from everyone else and for a hot bath. Jon tried to spin around to call goodbye and was hindered.

"Would you slow down? I thought you were exhausted."

"Yes, but think of the supper that will be waiting for us."

Jon closed his eyes and groaned. "Your mother promised lamb tonight. Oh gods, I could eat five of them."

Sherlock chuckled. "And then a long soak in the bath."

Jon's moan this time bordered on downright erotic and Sherlock missed a step.

"I call first."

Sherlock shoved Jon and quickened his pace. "No, _I_ call first. You got to go first last time."

"You take forever, though! At least I'm reasonable."

"But I _need_ it, Jon."

"Oh please."

"No, I hurt for longer than you so I need a longer soak. You're much more..." his hands reached out to mime Jon's slim physique before he quite knew what he was doing, and Jon laughed. "You know," he finished lamely.

Jon flexed his arms, showing off his growing biceps with no small amount of pride. "I'm what? Fit? Gorgeous? A god held captive in human form? Go on, you can say it."

' _Yes. To me, yes.'_ What he actually said was, "Your vanity is threatening to outstrip mine."

Jon laughed again and rushed ahead to face him, walking backwards. "If you can beat me home you can have first dibs on the bath. Deal?"

"Also, if I win, I get first choice at the lamb."

Jon's eyes narrowed. "Not a chance in Tartarus."

Sherlock kicked out, tripping Jon, who stumbled and squawked. Sherlock burst ahead and tore off down the path.

"You _cheat_! You wretched, awful cheat!" Jon lurched after him, hurling obscenities.

Yes, he was perhaps a cheat, but while he did have the longer legs, he didn't have a single hope against Jon's pure speed and energy. A moment later, and as expected, Jon caught up to him, leaving Sherlock behind in the dust.

Sherlock growled. "How are you so quick? I have four inches on you!"

Jon shot a smirk over his bare shoulder. "Faster than arrows, Sherlock!"

Sherlock panted and watched as Jon gracefully leapt over a fallen limb across the path. At least he could enjoy the view.

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

With the goddess Thallo now in repose, Auxesia had firmly spread the lushness of Summer out upon the land, and with it came warmer weather and longer days. It was so much better on the eyes for reading.

As the next few weeks passed, Sherlock was allowed to stay with Diodorus, or to pursue his own independent research, which involved his obsession for Egypt. Diodorus, who was fluent in Egyptian, began teaching Sherlock the language and alphabet. He quickly picked it up, and each evening he practised his writing on papyrus scrolls his father had brought from Athens.

Jon was exceedingly envious, and Sherlock promised to teach him once he was finished with his silly side course.

The two boys had been forced to spend less time than usual together, being apart every other day, but Sherlock found his focus had increased with Jon's absence. He hadn't realised how much of a distraction he'd been of late, so the perspective and awareness had been beneficial.

Even still, he missed Jon.

On the days he would trudge home, smelling of earth and sweat, Sherlock couldn't help but surreptitiously take in the ever-increasing changes in Jon's body. His muscles were defining more and more, particularly in his back and chest. His shoulders were broadening, and he swore he might even be growing taller. Either that or, alarmingly, his chiton's hemlines were shrinking. And he knew this because he could see a bit more of his thighs each week. The tan lines around the fabric grew thicker the more pale flesh was uncovered, until even Alcestis tutted one evening while Jon drank cup after cup of water.

"I'm going to have to visit my loom. You're growing right out of your chitoniskos."

Jon flashed her a wide smile, and Sherlock detected a hint of relief. The boy was worried he'd stopped growing which wouldn't do at all for the self-image he'd crafted of himself as an adult. Sherlock snorted.

 

The next week passed much the same. Sherlock was now reading his father's collection of Egyptian histories, in Egyptian, and Jon was away every other day playing solider. At the close of the week, Sherlock was buried deeply in a discourse on Alexander's famed library, and Sherlock was all but salivating. In his mind's eye, he imagined row after row of scrolls, texts and tablets. From cuniform to Latin, there would be more material to read, more knowledge to learn than he could consume in his entire lifetime. But it would be a close call. He mused he could get through at least seventy percent.

"Sherlock!"

The young man startled and looked into the exasperated face of his mother.

"I've been calling for you for five minutes. The evening meal is ready and getting colder."

Sherlock nodded, and reluctantly set his discourse aside. With a groan he stretched his back. "Where is Jon? He usually drags me away."

Alcestis paused at the drapes in the doorway. "I assume he's still with Cleitomachus. If he's not back soon, I will send you out to find him."

Sherlock sat up and looked out the window. It was nearly dark. Jon's class should have been over hours ago.

"Come along," his mother chided, and he got up to follow.

At the table were several plates of gleaming fish and silver bowls of asparagus and spinach leaves tossed with vinegar and olive oil. His mother had set out fresh pots of butter and honey, rolls were steaming in a heap in the centre. Sherlock's stomach rumbled. He looked to Jon's empty seat. Jon would be sad to miss tonight's meal. More than that, he should simply be here. He never missed supper.

Sherlock's father poured a libation out onto a tiny stone altar he kept for Athena, and they each murmured a quiet prayer in her honour. Their city's patron's festival was this weekend, and he and Jon were going for the first time on their own. Well, with Mycroft, but they would slip him the moment they were out the door.

"Are you ready for the festival? We're setting out early tomorrow and I don't want to hear you grumbling about leaving anything behind," his father said.

Sherlock nodded and plucked at his fish.

"Should I even bother telling you to listen and obey your brother?"

Sherlock arched a brow and smothered a grin.

"You're not to give him trouble," his father said. He took a sip of wine. "He is doing very well for himself and the last thing he needs is some scandal to come up because of his overly-curious sibling causing mischief."

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, father. Jon and I will be perfectly civil."

His father stared at him a moment longer, then nodded.

Sherlock reached for roll just as the sound of footsteps pounding on gravel floated in through the open door. Sherlock spun around as a red-faced and sweaty Jon entered with his soiled tunic plastered to his body.

"I apologise for my lateness," he gasped between breaths.

His mother wrinkled her nose at his appearance, and Jon ducked his head. "I'll just go change quickly."

She nodded and Jon rushed away. Sherlock sat back in his seat, tension ebbing now that Jon was back, and tucked into his meal. When Jon returned, he reached for the platter of fish and Alcestis cleared her throat. Jon looked up, and she pointedly nodded to Athena's altar.

"Oh!" Jon blushed and quickly murmured his own thanks to the goddess.

Respects all paid, Sherlock's parents discussed the bees and what she wanted to plant next month in the garden, while Jon stuffed his face as if he hadn't eaten in days.

Sherlock leaned over. "Long day, then?"

Jon nodded, tearing into a roll and reaching for the butter. "Yes. I stayed a bit later to work swords with Cleitomachus." He grinned. "He says I'm to participate in a special event at the end of the course, but I need to practise."

Alcestis looked up. "Oh? What sort of event?"

Jon chuckled. "A secret one. Will you come next week?"

She nodded. "Of course I will." She looked to her husband, who shook his head.

"I'm afraid I will be away in Athens all of next week. I would have liked to, though."

Jon smiled.

Septimius continued."I have heard, however, that you're doing rather well." He grinned at the boy. "Cleitomachus himself has said you're a favourite of his."

Jon beamed. "Really?"

"Yes. He says you're a stand out talent." His gaze turned sharp. "Though, don't let his praise go to your head. A healthy ego goes a long way to maintaining bravado in battle, but too much can inspire false confidence and get you into trouble. We can agree that is the last place you want that to happen."

Jon ducked his head. "Yes, sir. Of course."

Alcestis tutted. "All the same, well done, Jon."

The rest of the meal passed in silence, and when they finished, the boys promised to pack for their trip tomorrow. When Sherlock had finished, he wandered into Jon's room, and sat on the bed as his friend flitted hither and thither, packing his own rucksack efficiently.

"Do you think I should bring my xiphos?"

Sherlock snorted. "Are you intending to battle the homeless of Athens?"

Jon arched a brow. "People have been known to get out of hand when spirits run high. And your parents won't be with us this year."

Sherlock sighed and stretched out on his bed, arching his back and rubbing a hand along his full stomach. He was immensely gratified to see Jon pause in his folding to stare, and his cheeks flushed. A pleasant lassitude enveloped the room, and Sherlock blinked lazily at Jon while he finished packing. He hadn't realised how little he'd seen of him this week and he missed his company.

"How is Egypt?" Jon asked over his shoulder.

"Fascinating." He eyes tracked Jon across the room. "Did you know that there are so many texts in the library at Alexandria, that if one read all day, every day for the rest of one's life, they would still only get through about fifty-five to sixty percent of the collection?" Sherlock smirked. "I reckon I could get through seventy."

Jon chuckled. "I bet even seventy-one."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and Jon stilled, tapping a finger against his lip. "I feel like I'm forgetting something."

"Sleep."

Jon groaned and crawled onto the mattress with a heavy sigh, lying perpendicular to Sherlock at the foot of the bed. "Yesss. I am so tired."

Sherlock watched his back rise and fall with each breath. Jon was mere inches away and his fingers itched with a need to touch him. He settled for wriggling his toes beneath Jon's arms and gasped when Jon's teeth bit down on his big toe unexpectedly.

"That's disgusting, Jon. Do you know where my feet have been today?"

Jon giggled. "Nope."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and held his breath as Jon's callused fingertips skated over his toes and ankle, wrapping around the slimmest part. He exhaled in a rush.

"I'm waiting." Jon continued. "Where have they been today?"

Sherlock tried to scratch him with his toenails and Jon pressed them further into the mattress. "My room, actually. I, unlike some people, have been enriching my mind today."

"You haven't left at all, have you? It was gorgeous outside." Jon yawned and closed his eyes. Soon, his breaths evened out, fanning over the tops of Sherlock's feet. He nudged him gently, and Jon frowned.

"Jon. Release me."

Jon shook his head and grumbled. Sherlock's heart pulsed with fondness.

"You're not sleeping on my feet all night."

"Stay," he sighed, eyes still shut and so close to sleep.

Sherlock sat up and gave in to the impulse to run his fingers through Jon's hair. It was getting long and started to curl just the slightest bit at the end on his nape. His mother would be trimming it soon.

He leaned down further to whisper into Jon's ear. "I'll stay for a bit, but you have to settle onto the bed like a grown man."

Jon snorted into the sheets then blinked up at Sherlock sleepily. He shuffled onto his knees and reached for the pin at his shoulder. Sherlock lay back on the pillows and struggled to control his breathing as Jon slowly tugged his chitonisko over his shoulders and stared down at Sherlock with dark eyes. Jon's skin reflected the soft, warm glow of the oil lamp burning on a side table, and shadows gathered in each of the dips along his muscled abdomen. He was breathtakingly beautiful. Apollo himself would look at him with envy, he was sure of it. Sherlock's heart beat a tattoo against his ribcage, and he once again praised the benefit of his loincloth as a wave of desire washed over him. The tightly wrapped fabric was very handy at keeping his wilful penis from making its interests known in an inappropriate way. Something which seemed to want to happen _all the time_ now.

Jon softly smiled down at him. Thankfully, he too was wearing a loincloth because he crawled forward to lower himself next to Sherlock. Well, half on Sherlock. With a heavy arm thrown about his waist. And a nose tucked up next to his jaw.

Sherlock melted into the mattress beneath Jon and closed his eyes. He raised an arm over Jon's back and cupped the top of his spine, daring to slide it down, following the dip along his vertebrae. Jon exhaled and went limp against him, and Sherlock swore he could feel the ghost of warm lips press against his neck.

"Jon," Sherlock breathed. His chest _ached_ with overwhelming love and tenderness for his friend. He rolled his head and stared down at Jon's face, smooth and relaxed now in sleep, and let his mind wander again over the enigma of Jon.

There was _something_ there. Between them. There always had been. Everyone acknowledged that their closeness was unique, and Sherlock was given to understand that not everyone had a friend like Sherlock's. Not like _Jon_.

As he watched his friend sleep, he tried to imagine ever being this close to, say, his brother. It was true that as a very small child, just before and after Jon came to live with them, he would sneak into Mycroft's bed at night and demand a story, or, according to his mother, cuddles. Sherlock wrinkled his nose. He couldn't imagine ever cuddling with Mycroft.

Though, he did recall looking up to his brother with something like awe. That was probably fairly typical. But Jon was... it was so different with him. Even before he'd realised that his affection for Jon had grown into something, well, more than platonic, he and Jon behaved in a way that simple brothers did not.

Sherlock ran the tips of his fingers lightly down the warm, firm skin of his back. Drawing shapes and numbers, etching his name carefully over the back of his heart. Looking at him now, Sherlock couldn't imagine Jon would be this way with any of the other boys they knew. Jon's other friendships to the few their age from the gymnasium were growing closer, but Jon wouldn't consent to lie in their arms, would he? He wouldn't seek their company with soft affection, and touches, Sherlock's treacherous groin stirred, or with kisses. He and Jon really did kiss quite a lot. He kissed Jon more than he kissed his mother. Though, never on the lips. Oh, but how he wanted to.

Sherlock's eyes dropped down to those lips. They'd slightly parted in sleep and looked warm and dry. Soft. Supple. Sherlock licked his own and, for the hundredth time, imagined what they might feel like against his. His groin throbbed in response, and there was no mistaking the fact that he definitely had a burgeoning erection now. All it would take would be for Jon to shift his leg in his sleep and he would feel it - Sherlock bit his tongue and threw that thought away. He inhaled through his nose, and exhaled through his mouth. He should probably get up and leave. Instead, he clutched Jon tighter.

It was simply so comfortable to lie there with Jon. Just a bit longer, he thought. He'd lie there just a bit longer and enjoy Jon, heavy, warm, and trusting, against him. In a few hours, he would get up so they would each be in their own rooms when his mother inevitably shook them awake.

That decided, Sherlock wriggled down into the soft mattress, hugged his Jon close, and rested his eyes for only a moment.

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 


	7. Book I, Chapter vii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More masturbation and uncontrolled erections. Also, the boys go to Athens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Warning: mild dub-con ahead. Nothing overly explicit, but if this is something that could trigger, or upset you, please take this as your advance warning.

A shrill call roughly jerked Sherlock from sleep. He should've left Jon's room sooner, he thought with a yawn and a stretch. He needed more sleep. Sherlock shook out the kinks in his back and blearily peered at the dark outlines of various objects in his room. Why on earth they had to wake with the sun to get to Athens today was beyond him.

His mother's curly head poked through his door and she glared. "Up, I said. Your father wants to leave in half an hour and neither of you have eaten. Go and get Jon." Sherlock nodded and curled back around a pillow. Alcestis tisked and clapped her hands. " _Now_."

With a grumble he tore open the bedclothes. He quickly wrapped a fresh loincloth around his hips and shrugged into a clean tunic, cinching his belt. His rucksack was on the floor, ready to go, and he took one final visual sweep around the room. Most likely he would not have time to read anything at Mycroft's. He bit his lip, considering the scrolls of Egyptian he had yet to show Jon, before shaking his head and leaving them. 

The sound of his mother banging around in the serving room pulled Sherlock out of his own, and he shuffled down the hall towards Jon's. He paused outside the entrance, considering. If Jon were sleeping, as he suspected, Sherlock could use the opportunity to pounce him awake as he used to when they were little on mornings they would depart for Athens. With an impish grin he silently slipped his fingers between the folds of cloth hanging in the doorway. Carefully, he pulled them apart to peek in – and then paused. Jon was up. He was perched on the edge of his mattress, back to the door, and his arm was... he was... Sherlock's mouth went dry. Jon was touching himself. Immediately, Sherlock grew warm everywhere, and his own penis stirred with interest. The back of his neck flushed hot, and Sherlock wanted to pull away, embarrassed at having walked in on him, but.... 

He dared to stretch his neck forward and was rewarded with the sound of a tiny moan and Jon rolled his head back. Sherlock froze, afraid he'd be seen, but a closer inspection revealed that Jon's eyes were closed and his teeth were pressed into his lower lip. His arm jerked furiously and Sherlock longed, positively  _longed_  to get a closer look.

Sherlock jumped when he heard his mother call for him, and he threw himself away from the curtains, stumbling and falling back into the wall on the other side of the hall. Heart racing, cock absolutely  _aching_ to be touched, Sherlock ran to his room and hastily untied the fabric at his groin, and immediately wrapped his fingers around his now-dripping length. 

 _Oh gods_ , it was bliss. Perhaps he shouldn't, but his body told him it felt worse not to. Besides, he had to. His erection would  _never_  go away on its own, not like this, and gods above he was  _so close_. Sherlock's fist was a blur against his prick and he swirled his thumb around the tip.

"Mmm," he hummed, despite his worry of being quiet. His eyes fluttered shut as he concentrated on the image of Jon's arm roughly jerking up and down, the way his lips were being chewed by his own teeth, and  _gods_ , Sherlock wanted to do that for him. He would chew, and gnaw, and suck _ohhh -_ -his hips jerked and suddenly he was coming over his fingers, body lighting up from within. He somehow managed to cover himself enough as to not make a mess, and _ahhh, it was good._

Sherlock panted and slid down the wall to collapse in a heap on the floor. His hand was a mess and his prick softened where it nestled atop his thigh. He stared, slack-jawed ahead. ' _Well_.' he thought. ' _That was. Interesting.'_

"Sherlock, if you are not out here in five minutes I am sending you off with an empty belly and a stinging backside."

Sherlock winced, momentary peace shattered, and then scrambled to his feet lest she come in. He washed his hands in the basin on his desk, and then tossed the water out the open window. He carefully re-wrapped his loincloth with slightly trembling fingers and focused on keeping his breath even. Next, he checked his face in the glass on his desk, and finally straightened his tunic. Outwardly, he looked fine. Cheeks were a bit red, but he had been rushing around and thus was easily dismissed.

He bent down to sling his rucksack over a shoulder and swept aside the curtains, only to bump into Jon in the hall. He blushed and stammered and kept his gaze on the floor. If he even attempted to look into Jon's eyes he would know. He might know anyway. Not looking at him was a stupid idea.

"Morning," he mumbled, and edged past him towards his mother and breakfast.

Septimius was guzzling a cup of something and waved them in. 

Both boys had rolls of bread thrust into their arms, and each were given a cloth-wrapped pack of what was probably their lunch. Sherlock leaned in and kissed his harried mother on the cheek. She rushed them both out the door, right on the heels of his father, with frustrated kisses.

"Do not get into trouble or it will be ten times worse when you get home," she threatened.

"I already miss you!" Jon called with a cheeky wink.

She snapped a cloth at them, but waved until they disappeared around a hill. Jon leaned back against his rucksack and folded his hands over his stomach. He shook and bounced with each rattle of the cart.

"I'm going to nap. See you in a few."

Sherlock stared down at him, at his skin starting to glow in the rising sun and pinched his eyes shut. This weekend would be incredibly trying.

 

  -*- φιλία -*-

 

Jon was snacking on dried figs from Mycroft's pantry when Sherlock came down from their room, dressed in a tunic now free from the dust of travel. Sherlock studiously avoided watching him eat and went to forage for himself.

"And where has he gone off to?"

Jon smirked. "Said he was going to meet with Cebriones before dinner."

Sherlock pulled a face and pretended to gag. Jon grinned. 

"I honestly cannot believe he hasn't thrown that greasy jackal off yet. Mycroft certainly has more connections now than his so-called erastes will ever have." He reached over and snatched a fig from Jon's pile.

Jon shrugged. "Maybe he likes the companionship."

Sherlock looked up into Jon's suspiciously blank face, who then opened his mouth to chew off the end of his fig. Sherlock shook himself and remembered to roll his eyes.

"Do not use 'Mycroft' and 'companionship' in the same sentence again." 

Jon shook his head. "So, what shall we do until they get back? We have at least two hours."

Sherlock chewed his own fig and thought. "We could rifle through his room for state secrets?"

"Or?"

"We could venture out into Athens, unattended, the night before the Panathenaic Festival and see what trouble is to be had?"

"I'll grab my sword."

 

-*- φιλία -*- 

 

The yearly Athenian Panathenaic Festival was utter chaos. It was glorious. 

As Athens' protector, Athena Polias's birthday was celebrated in grand fashion and honour. All of Athens was invited to celebrate, regardless of class, station, or citizenship. Jon, who was not technically Athenian, was allowed to enjoy the festivities along with their family, and they had usually gone every year. Every fourth year, the festival was particularly splendid, but each year was great fun. The Panathenaic Games gathered athletes, gymnasts, warriors, and artisans throughout the polis, and there was much food, wine, and general revelry to be had. The joyful spirit carried through all of Athens’ citizens, and Sherlock and Jon could not help but be swept up by it.

Jon smiled and stayed close to Sherlock as they wandered up and down the Agora, a section of which was cleared for the following morning's procession to the Parthenon. Sherlock lingered over merchant stalls, and Jon admired the gleam and craftsmanship of foreign blades. One dagger in particular caught his eye, and Jon gasped. He tugged Sherlock's wrist.

"Look." He pointed out a handsome, gleaming blade, the light of which reflected several oil lamps burning around the display. 

The blade was iron, tapering down to a sharp point with a gentle curve. The handle was very fine, and looked to be primarily made of silver, with delicate, simple, gold filagree looping up to cap the end with a thick, smooth lotus flower. The accompanying scabbard, was equally magnificent in its simplicity, and had a similarly matching lotus flower motif at the mouth. Jon whined and Sherlock watched as his fingers twisted the fabric of his tunic.

Sherlock nodded. "It is very beautiful."

Jon sighed. "Yes." He flagged down a jolly looking man who was in the middle of about four different tasks. "How much is the lotus blade?"

The man grinned and passed an appraising eye over Jon's face. "For you, eighteen."

Jon groaned, and gripped his leather satchel of coins. "Fourteen?"

The man tisked. "I bought this for sixteen. I must make something to earn a living with."

Jon's shoulders drooped and he sighed again. Sherlock frowned. Jon's old dagger had been his father's and it was a rusted piece of iron that befit a peasant, not Jon. He vaguely remembered another time when they were children and Jon had found a similar blade he couldn't afford. Jon deserved something fine. Something he would use practically and could be proud to show off. In his mind, Jon needed that dagger.

Sherlock nudged him. "Jon, look there at the stall with grilled lamb and flatbreads." Jon's head immediately swivelled in the direction Sherlock pointed to. Sherlock imagined he could hear his stomach rumble. He reached into his coin purse and pulled out two drachmas. "Go wait in line and get us a snack. Mycroft will probably subject us to something horrible in order reinforce how very pompous and sophisticated he is, and you're already starving."

Jon nodded, taking the money, and cast one more longing look at the dagger. "Where will you be?"

Sherlock feigned edging towards the herb stall two tents down that he'd wanted to pass one more look over for anything poisonous he could take home to experiment with. Toxins were incredibly interesting, after all, and he said as much.

As soon as Jon was safely across the thoroughfare and no longer visible, Sherlock sidled back up to the blade merchant.

"I'll give you ten drachmas for the lotus dagger and will not tell my politician brother about how your shop is being used as a go-between for an illegal narcotics trade in the covered end."

The merchant's mouth dropped open.

"Your pupils, the twitchy, paranoid gentlemen in the back, the fairly obvious-"

"Yes, alright, shh!" The merchant shifted his gaze back and forth. "Keep  _quiet_ , boy. Ten drachmas. Take it and leave."

Sherlock smirked, reached into his leather purse and handed over the required amount. The man reached for the dagger, hands trembling, though whether that was because of his paranoia or the tell-tale signs that he was coming down from his high was unclear.

"Wrap it," he demanded.

The man glared, but reached for a cloth and quickly wrapped the purchase before handing it over to Sherlock. Sherlock managed to stuff the wrapped dagger into his tunic, hiding it under his arm, where he pressed the covered blade to his torso. If he was careful, he could just keep it hidden from Jon long enough until they got back to Mycroft's where he could hide it properly.

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

When they stumbled into Mycroft's foyer two hours later, they were breathless and laughing. Sherlock may have procured an illicit skein of very good wine.

"Oh, Dionysus," Mycroft drawled. "Already inebriated? You've been here barely three hours."

Cebriones sauntered in behind him and lay a hand at his waist, dragging his eyes over the young men and licking his lips. Sherlock suppressed a shudder and stepped closer to Jon. He loathed that weasel of a man.

"Relax, Mycroft,” Cebriones intoned. “They're just young men having fun." He pinched Mycroft's side and stepped forward to greet them. "Welcome back to Athens." He let his gaze linger on Sherlock's mouth. "You've grown up a bit."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed Jon's wrist, taking care to keep his other bicep firmly pressed to his side. "Let us know when dinner is ready." He shoved Jon towards the steps leading to the upper level.

"It _is_ ready. Be down in five minutes!" his brother called after them.

Jon giggled and wandered over to the window at their room, looking down at the activity on the street outside. Sherlock quickly pulled out the wrapped blade and stuffed it under his pillow.

"Is it just me," Jon said, "or is Cebriones even slimier now than when we were younger?"

"He's slimier now."

Jon shook his head. "If he tries anything with you, this time I'm going to hit him."

A warm glow lit up Sherlock's belly that had nothing to do with drink. He'd like to see that, actually. "You should. I'm sure you could take him."

Jon turned to him, and Sherlock was surprised to see the seriousness of Jon's words reflected in his eyes. He stepped forward and hesitantly raised a hand to settle over Sherlock's chest.

"I mean it." His lips thinned and his eyes narrowed. "I don't like people... touching you." He held Sherlock's gaze, and Sherlock's heart stopped for two beats, and then Jon slid his hand away and made towards the stairs "Let's go before one of them comes searching."

Sherlock placed his palm over the spot where Jon's hand had been and exhaled. He shook himself, then lifted his pillow away and placed the dagger under the small side table near their mattress. He smoothed his tunic and followed after Jon.

 

Dinner was deeply unpleasant.

Sherlock spent the resultant hour alternately scowling, picking at his food, and trying to keep his mouth closed as often as possible. For once.

Likewise, Jon sat beside him, rigid in posture but politely nodding as required.

"Jon, how is your training going?" Mycroft smiled genuinely at the blond, and he leaned towards Cebriones, who was reclining upon over-stuffed pillows at his side. "Jon is training with the celebrated warrior, Cleitomachus."

Cebriones' eyes widened and he sat his golden chalice of wine down. "Are you indeed? That is a fine education, I'd suspect. The man is practically a hero." He ran a finger across a full lower lip. "His training is obviously having a profound physical effect on you. I hardly recognised you when you tumbled through the door."

Mycroft pulled a tight smile and stabbed at a morsel of roasted beef shoulder." Jon has always been more inclined to athletics." Sherlock opened his mouth to refute, but Mycroft held up a pre-emptive palm. "In addition to having many other fine qualities. I certainly mean as compared to Septimius' residing children."

Jon sat still as a stone when not pushing his turnips through a thick beef gravy. Behind him, one of Mycroft's two attendants hovered quietly, each holding platters of food, ready to replenish as needed. Admittedly, the food was delicious. The company was simply off-putting.

Cebriones slid a possessive arm over Mycroft's shoulder and pulled him to his side. To his credit, Mycroft expertly schooled his expression, but Sherlock could see the way the skin around his eyes tightened. His stomach roiled. He obviously hadn't given his brother enough credit both as an actor nor in his capacity for patience.

The man's fingers idly slid up and down Mycroft's neck and he grinned at Jon from across the table. "Are you still set on the military, Jon?"

Sherlock stiffened where he sat upon his own pile of pillows. He loudly abandoned his eating utensils and balled his fists in his lap.

"I am still undecided."

"Hmm. Well, it would be a wasted opportunity not to, given your current training. You know, my uncle was recently promoted to general and will be in town next month." He looked at Mycroft with pursed lips as if considering. "Should we perhaps introduce them, My?"

Sherlock seethed and could not stop his lips from trembling apart to breathe through his anger. At his side he felt Jon equally tense up.

Mycroft gently eased himself from Cebriones' side under pretence of reaching for his own chalice. "That would be entirely up to Jon, though, perhaps the boy should finish his schooling before any formal introductions are made?"

Cebriones arched a brow.

"It would be a shame to waste your esteemed uncle's time should Jon pursue physical sciences instead." Mycroft clarified.

Cebriones hummed and relaxed back into a refined repose. He let his gaze finally drift again to Sherlock. "And how is our budding philosopher? Have you written a score of treatises to change the world yet?"

Sherlock took a sip of wine with affected indifference. "I've written several."

"Any of them good?"

Sherlock glared.

Cebriones sighed and tangled his fingers into the nape at Mycroft's neck, cocking his head. "Goodness, I really cannot get over how much you've grown. How old are you now?"

"Fourteen. And a half."

Mycroft smothered a grin, and Cebriones chuckled.

"What a wondrous age. And you are still unattached?" He directed a shocked expression at his erômenos. "How have you let that happen? It's criminal, beloved."

Mycroft laid his knife down and took a breath. "My brother has never been inclined to take an erastes. No doubt he'd benefit-"

Sherlock loudly scoffed.

"-but I'm afraid his temperament would not allow for such a partnership. A pity, I'm sure."

"I am perfectly fine without whoring myself out to the seediest politico with fat pockets," he spat.

" _Sherlock_ ," Mycroft snapped.

Cebriones laughed and shook his head. "He's always had a bit of bite, hasn't he?"

Having reached his limit, Jon pushed away from the table and threw a heated glance at Cebriones. Sherlock followed, rising with him and wrapping long fingers around his wrist.

"Thank you for dinner, Mycroft. We will see you in the morning." He tugged at Jon's wrist but the boy refused to move. Sherlock could see the pulse hammering in his neck.

Cebriones' eyes locked onto their hands and his lips pulled back into a slow, wicked grin. "Mmm, yes. Enjoy your...  _sleep_."

Jon's lip curled in a sneer, and instead of being led away, he ended up nearly dragging Sherlock from the room and up the stairs. His fingers around Sherlock's wrist were almost tight enough to cause pain, but a twisted part of Sherlock couldn't help but enjoy the protective display.

As soon as they were in their room, he slammed the door shut (oh, small miracles, he finally had a real door) and wedged a stop underneath for good measure. Jon jammed his hands onto his waist and closed his eyes. His shoulders pulled taught as he took several deep breaths.

Sherlock stood uncertainly in the middle of the room. "I am sorry."

Jon exploded. "What on earth could  _you_  have to apologise for? Your brother should be the one apologising for subjecting you to that... that... disgusting _pig_." Jon paced to the window and abruptly turned back to him. "No, maybe you can tell me why he continues his association with him."

Sherlock shrugged. He'd been wondering himself. "I'm not certain. I know he is using him for something, but I would have thought he'd have gotten what he needed by now. I don't know."

Jon shook his head and smiled the smile that meant he was terrifically angry. Sherlock shivered.

He blew out a deep breath and nodded. "Ok. Well. We're in here, and we can simply go to sleep. We'll have to be up before dawn if we want to join the procession."

Jon moved forward to turn the sheets back, and dropped down to unlace his leather sandals. "You do still want to go, don't you?"

"Yes." He followed Jon's lead and began unlacing his own sandals, and sat awkwardly on the bed. Sherlock was a bit of a jumble of emotions. Part of him was still furious at Cebriones and Mycroft, though his brother  _had_  run a fair bit of interference. Part of him wanted to hug Jon and calm him down, and another part, the largest part, wanted to tackle him to the bed and kiss his face over and over.

Jon tossed his tunic in the corner, a rarity, so he must have been angry. Jon was always very careful with his garments. The loincloth followed after.

"Too hot," he mumbled, reaching for the window and unlatching the clasp. Mycroft had fine glass windows, which Sherlock, begrudgingly, was impressed with.

Sherlock purposefully did not look back. If Jon was going to be sleeping next to him, completely naked and in a rage over the senseless comments from that rat, Sherlock would have a hard enough time getting to sleep as it was. Actually, it might be best to let him fall asleep first. Just in case he tried to do anything Jon-like, such as pulling him close to sleep. Sherlock's belly quivered again and he closed his eyes.

"Actually, it is hot. I'm going to bring up some water."

Jon raised up on his elbows. 

"No, I'll be right back." He crossed the room, unstoppered the door, and listened for the sounds of anyone below. He thought he could hear raised voices coming from the direction of his brother's room. Good. Hopefully Mycroft dressed him down for his gross display.

Quick as a mouse, Sherlock scuttled to the kitchen and pilfered around until he found a glass and poured himself water from the pitcher. He drank his fill, and filled another glass, intending to bring to Jon.

"We have wine if you prefer."

Sherlock's neck prickled where he stood. "No, thank you. Goodnight." He swiftly turned and crossed the kitchen, but Cebriones blocked his path. 

"Leaving so soon? It really has been too long, Sherlock. Mycroft doesn't tell me enough about his brilliant little brother."

Sherlock flicked his gaze over the man before him. He noted Cebriones had put on his sandals and his evening himation was fixed around his shoulders. He tisked. 

"Oh dear, has Mycroft thrown you out tonight? What a pity you won't get to see Jon's expression of glee." He edged past the man, but Cebriones flung an arm out, wrapping it around Sherlock's waist and tugging him to his body. Sherlock gaped in affront and pulled back, but Cebriones had gripped with his other arm and held tight.

"Let me go, immediately," he growled. Hatred rolled off him in waves, and his voice deepened with intent.

"Why when you feel so good against me?" Cebriones sniffed at Sherlock's hair. "I do believe I prefer the fairer brother."

Sherlock dropped the water glass, not even caring that it shattered, and pushed at Cebriones' chest. "Let me go now, or there  _will_  be consequences, you swine. You are not fit to clean my chamber pot. How Mycroft puts up with you I will never know."

"Hmm," he frowned, clutching Sherlock close. "Unlike you, Mycroft knows how to use his mouth properly when it's open. A pleasure I look forward to teaching you very soon." He swiftly slid a hand up to lock around Sherlock's throat, and he spun them around, shoving Sherlock up against the wall. 

Sherlock's heartrate tripled and he fought down a rising sense of panic as his airway was blocked. He was pinned between a man much stronger than himself and could not get free. Dimly, he thought he should've stayed for a few more self-defence lessons with Jon as he struggled fruitlessly.

Cebriones squeezed around his throat, and Sherlock's mouth opened wider in a desperate attempt to take in air. Cebriones' eyes darted down at the movement and he stared at his lips with hunger. "So beautiful. Aphrodite had a hand in forming you." He nuzzled his face, and Sherlock recoiled with disgust. "Shall I show you what good those lips are for?" He pressed his hips into Sherlock's to grind his erection into his abdomen. Sherlock clawed at his arms.

Cebriones pushed in closer, eyes narrowed in anger, and brushed his lips against Sherlock's when he spoke. "You know, when you act like the arrogant little peacock you are, it makes me think there's a reason behind how highly you think of yourself. And I very much want to know what they are-" there was a sound, a thunk, and Cebriones suddenly collapsed against Sherlock and slid to the ground.

Sherlock gasped at the rush of air, and immediately darted away, only to collide with Jon. His arm was raised with the hilt of his xiphon pointed down. And if looks could kill, Cebriones would be in the farthest reaches of Tartarus.

Sherlock began trembling. "Jon."

Jon lowered his sword and rushed to Sherlock, cradling him to his chest. "What did he do to you? Are you all right? I'm going to  _kill_  him."

"What is going on?" Mycroft emerged from the hall, irritated and confused. His eyes flicked to Cebriones' crumpled body, to Sherlock being held in Jon's arms, and the shattered glass on the floor. He narrowed his eyes at Cebriones and moved to his brother.

"That foul little toad. Sherlock, what has he done?"

Sherlock jerked away from his brother's touch, and pressed his face into Jon's neck. "Get him away from me," he mumbled.

"Mycroft, if you don't remove him right now, I will run this blade through his chest. Do you understand?"

Mycroft nodded and called for his servants. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "Six months. That is all I had left before I could have had him... dealt with." He looked back to his brother, eyes filled with remorse. "Sherlock, I am sorry. I did not think he would... I will see to it that he never troubles you again."

"You'd better," Jon spat. "I'm taking him upstairs." He gently ushered Sherlock along, and aimed a kick to the unconscious dog on the floor. "Get rid of him."

Sherlock clung to Jon as he walked him up the steps. He focussed on breathing in and out. He was being foolish. Physically, he was fine. Well, his throat was a bit sore. But otherwise, nothing had... happened. It nearly had, but, but Jon had come, like always and... if he hadn't, he would've... but he  _hadn't_. He was going to be sick.

"Sherlock," Jon called softly. Warm hands cupped his face and Sherlock found himself lying in bed with Jon's furrowed brow and downturned lips before him. "Hey, are you there?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Good," he smiled, relieved. "You went away for a moment." Jon licked his lips and rubbed his thumb softly across his cheek. "What do you need? What can I do?"

Sherlock thought. Really, there wasn't anything he needed. He tugged at his tunic, and Jon helped him remove it, setting his fibula on the table nearby and tossing his belt away before turning back to him. His eyes darted to Sherlock's loincloth, and yes, yes, Sherlock did want to take it off, but he didn't dare. Too much temptation. He shook his head. Jon nodded, then pulled his tunic off again and tossed it away.

"Sleep," he murmured.

Sherlock was pulling Jon down on top of him before Jon could so much as blink, and he landed with an ' _oof_.' Sherlock inhaled the comforting, familiar scent of Jon, and wrapped his arms about his neck. His legs tangled with Jon's, and he pressed his face into his throat. Simply breathing.

"I've got you," Jon whispered. He carefully arranged himself half atop Sherlock, and stroked his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "I won't ever let him touch you again." He kissed Sherlock's brow. "I should have gone with you. I'm sorry." He kissed him again. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock simply pulled him tighter against him. Jon was safe. Jon was protection. Sherlock was being silly. And he was suddenly exhausted.

"I am tired."

"I know. Go to sleep. I will watch over you." He nuzzled Sherlock's curls and exhaled slow and warm, sliding his thigh more firmly between Sherlock's. "Will always watch over you."

Content, and assured that Jon wasn't leaving, Sherlock let his eyes slip shut and surrendered.

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 


	8. Book I, Chapter viii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Jon wander the festival and drink wine. And fluff.

Sherlock awoke with a small furnace lying above him.

He took a moment to observe his surroundings, and then he frowned as the memories of last night replayed in his mind.  _Cebriones_. Sherlock should figure out a way to poison him. He bet he could do it, too.

Anger simmered thickly in his gut to mingle with the residual feelings of humiliation at his own weak response. Immediately, he decided to cast all thoughts of the previous night away as they were tedious and mortifying. Nothing had happened and he had over-reacted, no doubt to at least, subconsciously, seek Jon’s presence. Yes. That would do for an explanation.

Emotions properly smothered, he then registered the fact that Jon was still lying half on him, and was putting off heat like he was Sherlock's personal sun. His face was smashed into his neck, and Sherlock felt a small puddle of drool cooling in the dip of his collarbones. He smiled fondly when he should've been disgusted. He lay in the dark, noting that it was still before dawn, but judging by the sounds on the street below, it was nearing time to wake up for the procession. Then again, a naked Jon was lying atop him, and... oh. How interesting. A naked Jon was lying atop him with an impressive erection pressing into his hip.

Sherlock took a moment to exhale slowly and closed his eyes. Opposing feelings of desire and shame roiled within, and he briefly worried if he were not better than Cebriones for feeling so while Jon lay sleeping. If he said he wasn't enjoying the feel of Jon, hard against him, lying atop him, he would be lying, no matter the state of Jon's consciousness. He licked his lips and banished a sudden image of that swine putting his hands on Jon.  _No_. Jon chose to be with him like this. Sherlock was nothing like Cebriones. They were... Sherlock and Jon, and Jon was literally acting as his security blanket.

His stomach quivered as if filled again with bees and butterflies. Diodorus had said morning erections were normal and that they happened. But if pressed to explain why Sherlock had particularly been experiencing them of late, he knew it was because his dreams were filled with Jon. By this logic, perhaps it was possible that... was Jon possibly dreaming of  _him_? Or, was it simply biology? A test was needed.

Sherlock carefully slid his arms around Jon, pressing him close. Jon reacted favourably and mumbled something before nuzzling his face deeper into his neck. Sherlock smiled. Good. He was receptive to his touch. He bit his lip.

Next, he slowly bent his knee and slid his heel back, so that his thigh gently slipped snugly between Jon's legs... he stilled as Jon wriggled and pressed back. Only barely. Sherlock felt his heart quicken. He tilted his hips up, trying to ignore the fact that all that separated their genitals was Sherlock's loincloth. He swallowed a groan. If he'd taken it off last night, they'd be pressed together, skin to skin. Sherlock's prick, which had slowly been thickening, twitched and his hips followed suit. Jon sighed in his sleep and pressed forward.

' _Oh gods,'_  he thought, closing his eyes as pleasure tingled in his groin. He really, really should stop. Maybe one more thrust. He pressed forward, and Jon moaned into his neck, meeting his thrust and Sherlock's brain went fuzzy.  _'Oh, please wake up, Jon. Wake up and tell me to keep going.'_

But it  _was_ wrong. He clenched his eyes shut and forced himself to be still. This was madness. Jon was sleeping. Jon was trusting Sherlock just as Sherlock trusted Jon to keep him safe. His stomach twisted now with guilt. He swallowed back his desire, and took a calming breath. Jon's member twitched between their heated bodies and Sherlock knew that again there was no graceful way to get out of this. He pressed his heels into the bed and rolled. As soon as Jon had slipped off of him, he flopped back to his side of the bed, and pretended to stretch. Loudly.

Jon startled, blinking awake and blearily looked around. "Wha? Wha's wrong? 

Sherlock stretched his arms over his head, opening his mouth wide in an exaggerated yawn. "Mmm, Jon. Good. You're awake. We need to get up before dawn. I can hear people outside."

Jon frowned and licked his lips. It would take him a moment for his brain to wake up, so Sherlock quickly grabbed up his bag, mumbled something about his morning ablutions, and left Jon to... take care of himself. Sherlock hoped the water downstairs was particularly cold.

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

Dressed and ready, Mycroft and the boys wound their way to the northern edge of the city towards the Dipylon Gate, where crowds had already been gathering for hours. There was an anxious hum surrounding the citizens of Athens, and Jon and Sherlock drank in the sites of people singing, eating, and drinking.

Just after dawn, the parade began, and people flooded through the gates. Mycroft, being a newly established member of political society, was able to get them placed near the front of the procession. Behind and before them were hundreds of people wearing brightly coloured peplos, himations, fabrics and embroidery of all kinds to mark the celebration, and this wasn't even a  _grand_  festival year. Jon smiled, and kept his hand glued to Sherlock's. He'd thoroughly questioned him before they left, ensuring he was up for venturing out that day. Sherlock had groaned and told him to stop mothering him. Mycoft had even chuckled.

Jon and Mycroft waved at the crowds skirting the edges of the Agora, watching as the procession steadily marched on towards the Acropolis, and then on to the Erechtheion where the likeness of Athena would be honoured, though not with her new peplos until the next year. Mycroft had said he would have to leave them afterwards, for "matters of a personal nature," and told Jon he was to look after Sherlock. Sherlock had shaken his head in exasperation, but Jon nodded, taking his charge very seriously. 

Once the ceremony for Athena was over, the crowds dispersed to various games and festivities. Jon and Sherlock wandered from arena to arena, to small circles of crowds ringing performing gymnasts and singers. There were contests for music and poetry. Sherlock was eager to watch the musicians, and the pair ate little bites of festival foods from stalls and vendors tucked here and there. Wine was flowing in abundance, and while Jon and Sherlock had never really been given wine that hadn't already been very watered down, Jon, now fifteen, was adamant they drink adult wine. Sherlock had laughed but been game, and so it was that hours later they found themselves, along with a few other youths, splashing about in a fountain just before sunset, almost too drunk to remain standing.

Jon spun Sherlock in a circle, his wet fingers digging into Sherlock's wrists, and Sherlock had shouted and giggled until finally collapsing, breathless. Several men laughed at them, and Sherlock splashed a wall of water at Jon. Jon was laughing so hard he'd started hiccupping, and Sherlock smiled until his cheeks hurt. All around them Athens was happy, and singing, and torches were being lit for the torch parade as the sun began to go down.

"I should stop at the temple of Apollo before we go back."

Sherlock whipped his head around, water droplets flying. "Are we leaving?"

"No. Not yet. ‘M merely thinking aloud." He blinked and looked around them, and then giggled at Sherlock.

"What?"

Jon pointed at his chest. Sherlock looked down.

"Your tunic," he gasped. "I can see through it! Sherlock.  _Sherlock_."

Sherlock cocked his head and plucked at the sopping garment.

"We may as well be  _naked_ ," he threw his head back and laughed. "I can see your nipples."

Sherlock chuckled low in his gut and stood up. "Jon. You are drunk. Out you get."

He reached down, tugging Jon up, and Jon slid his hands around Sherlock's narrow waist. He nuzzled his face into his neck, and Sherlock sighed, wrapping his own arms around his shoulders as they stood entwined in the middle of a fountain.

"I like this," Jon mouthed against his neck. Sherlock shivered and pressed close, nodding. "I like touching you. Being close to you." He kissed the dip at the hollow of his throat, and Sherlock swallowed with anticipation. His nerves were lighting up and he felt a jolt of bravery take hold of him.

"I... I like when you touch me, too."

Jon tilted his head up and blinked with soft eyes. The light of dozens of torches sparkled in them, and Sherlock's breath hitched at how beautiful Jon was. Jon's lips slowly curved in a crooked smile, and he raised a hand to cup his jaw.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock dipped his head closer. His eyes flicked down to lips that were so close. All he had to do was lean forward. "Mmm?"

"I want..." Jon's eyes dropped to Sherlock's lips. "I want to kiss you."

Sherlock gasped and nodded. "Yes. Yes, please, I wan-" his words were cut off by Jon's lips pressing into his and Sherlock's knees abruptly went weak. Jon wrapped a firm arm around about his waist, and Sherlock groaned behind his closed lips.

Jon pulled back and Sherlock made a sound of disappointment until his mouth was back, pressing insistently against his. Sherlock sighed and leaned against Jon, wondering if he were so drunk he was imagining it all. His greatest, most secret desire was coming to life before him. He threaded the fingers of one hand into Jon's hair, tilting his head and holding him where he wanted him, gripping the fabric of Jon's sodden tunic at his chest.

"Sherlock," Jon sighed, and Sherlock twitched at the feel of Jon's tongue quickly darting against his lips. Sherlock parted his, hoping Jon would try again and was rewarded by the feeling of his smooth, hot tongue sliding into his mouth, and teeth clacking against his. Cautious, curious, Sherlock tentatively touched the tip of his tongue against Jon's. Jon clutched him tighter and moaned, opening his mouth wider and firmly licking Sherlock's tongue with his until his head spun and Sherlock felt dizzy. Good dizzy. Giddy and dizzy. He smiled into their kiss, and licked at Jon's mouth, then nipped his lower lip playfully. Jon nipped back and smiled into another searing kiss.

Around them, people were whistling and cat-calling, which snapped Jon's attention back to the present. He giggled and pressed his forehead against Sherlock's.

"Are we still in the fountain?"

Sherlock smiled like a besotted fool, nuzzling Jon's brow and already missing the feel of his lips. "Yes."

"They're going to lock us up for indecency." Jon pulled away. His eyes were half-lidded and dark in the fading light. He slipped his hand into Sherlock's. "Come. Let's go dry off somewhere and get something to eat."

"And more wine."

"Mmm, yes."

 

-*- φιλία -*- 

 

Loud banging roughly pulled Sherlock from his slumber, and he winced as pain stabbed through his head. Even after the banging stopped, his head continued to pound and throb.

" _Shhh_ ," he hissed into the room. 

The banging started up again and Mycroft called through the door. "Father is here, and he is waiting to cart your drunken selves back home. Best not keep him waiting."

" _Jonnn_ ," Sherlock moaned, rolling over, and pressing his face into Jon's shoulder beside him. "Make him stop."

Jon curled into Sherlock's body with his own grumbling moan. "Mycroft, stop!"

It didn't work. Sherlock licked the roof of his mouth and winced. Ugh, he tasted horrible. "What did we do?"

"We drank pure wine," Jon rasped. He flipped them over and caged himself above Sherlock's warm body. Sherlock froze. His warm,  _naked_  body under Jon's warm  _also_  naked body. Jon rubbed his face into Sherlock's neck and moaned piteously. "We drank so much wine."

"Boys!" his father called from downstairs. "I'm coming up if I don't hear movement!"

"Gods," Sherlock said. "Fine, fine,  _fine_. We're up!" He immediately regretted shouting. His head throbbed in time with each pulse of his heart. Dionysus be damned. This was why one did not drink undiluted wine.

Miserable, they managed to haul themselves out of bed. They dressed perfunctorily, heedless of appearance, and trudged down the steps. In the vestibule, Sherlock avoided Mycoft's smug gaze. 

"Did you have a nice night?"

"Piss off," Sherlock mumbled, reaching for the cup of water held out to him and swallowing it in three gulps. "More." Mycroft arched a brow. "Please."

He and Jon drank their fill, said goodbye to Mycroft, and somehow unsteadily heaved themselves into the back of Septimius' wagon with their belongings. His father cast one final glance to the pair who were shielding their eyes and curling down into the soft hay stacked behind them.

"Ah, youth."

When the oxen lurched forward they winced in tandem. The cart was far, far too unwieldy, and the sounds of Athens' continued celebrating were more than Sherlock's poor pounding head could take. He clapped his hands over his ears and collapsed into a ball of misery until they were well outside the city gates. As they lay there, bumping and sliding about, Sherlock, for the life of him, could not remember getting back to Mycroft's. He had no idea how late they were out. In fact, the last thing he could remember was that amazing kiss with Jon in the fountain. His stomach dipped and swooped in remembrance. For the rest of the trip back home, he kept sneaking shy glances at Jon, but Jon had passed out almost as soon as they'd left the city. Though, he'd slid his fingers in between those of Sherlock's, which Sherlock then buried under the hay to hide from his father. Of course, if he asked, he could just say he was making sure Jon didn't fall out the back. Which was highly likely. For that matter, so could Sherlock.

He'd fallen asleep himself somewhere between home and Athens, and the next thing he knew, his mother was shaking them both awake, looking highly amused.

"Would Athena be ashamed of my boys?"

Neither of them could look her in the eye and each mumbled something unintelligible. She shook her head and pointed to the villa. "Inside. Bathe, and then go back to bed."

They did precisely that. Though, Sherlock would have preferred to curl up next to Jon again and ask him what he remembered. Nerves were steadily eating away at his confidence the longer Jon did not mention the kiss. Or, did not try to kiss him again. Would he  _want_  to kiss him again? He very much wanted Jon to kiss him again. Sherlock's stomach clenched with a worrisome thought. What if he'd only done so because he'd been inebriated?

Sherlock groaned and pulled a pillow over his face. He would ask him once they'd both woken up. Unless Jon slipped into his room later. Which was possible. He really hoped he did.

 

 

To his surprise, Sherlock ended up sleeping through the whole rest of the day and night, and when he groggily stumbled out of his room the following morning, Jon had already left for the gymnasium. Sherlock stood dumbly staring into his empty room and rubbed at his upset stomach.

To his further annoyance, Diodorus fetched him far too soon after with an overly loud, cheerful voice, and told him they would be studying Archimedes that day. Sherlock's shoulders sagged as he trundled off after his tutor.

 

 -*- φιλία -*-

 

Jon came home again late that night, filthy, sweaty, and sheepish. Sherlock stared down at his meal, and when Jon re-joined them at the table, it took several minutes before Sherlock worked up the courage to look at him. When he did, Jon resolutely ignored him. Sherlock's stomach dropped and filled with ice. He picked and pushed at his food until finally asking to be excused. 

He determined to wait outside Jon's room until he showed up. When he did, his friend halted in surprise.

Sherlock opened his lips, not quite sure what he'd planned to say. "Um, hello."

Jon blinked and waved awkwardly. "Hello?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. Common ground. He should find something neutral to break the ice. Though, why there was ice, or why it even needed to be broken in the first place was ridiculous. He sighed and shook his head. The last time he ignored a problem they didn't speak for over a week and it was intolerable. 

"This is pointless. Why aren't you talking to me?"

Jon frowned and crossed his arms. "Why are  _you_  not talking to me?"

Sherlock's brows rose. "I... well, you were gone when I woke up, and—”

"Or did you purposely stay in your room to avoid me?"

Sherlock didn't think his eyes could get any wider. "What? No. Did you also not sleep as long?" He scratched his head in bewilderment. That was a bit surprising. "I do not think I can hold my cups very well...."

A laugh was startled out of Jon and he shook his head. "No.” He arched a sceptical brow. “Did you really sleep for twenty hours?"

Sherlock crossed his arms and shuffled his feet. "The evidence would suggest so."

"Amazing."

"Shut up, Jon."

Jon stepped forward, now all lazy smiles and shaking his head. "You, who experiments on everything, who has ingested more unsafe powders and draughts than ever was advisable." He paused a few inches away from Sherlock. "You're a  _light_ weight."

"Shut  _up_ , Jon." He could feel his cheeks were hot. Jon leaned into the wall, watching him in the dim light. Sherlock plodded on. "I also wanted to ask... can you... remember anything?"

Jon's expression immediately closed. "What do you mean?"

"Well, for example, how did we get back to Mycroft's?"

Jon narrowed his eyes in thought. "I actually have no idea, either. I think we got a bad bit of flat cakes, if you know what I mean."

Sherlock huffed.

Jon looked to the ground. "What um,  _do_  you recall?"

Sherlock's tongue felt thick in his mouth. This was dumb. Why did it feel so silly to talk about it? "I remember everything up to the... fountain."

Jon looked up. "To?"

Sherlock crooked a half grin. "Well, to and including." He met Jon's eyes and held his gaze, willing him not to deny their kiss.

Jon exhaled slowly. "Good."

Sherlock blinked. Hope flickered in his chest. "Good?"

Jon smiled and butted his shoulder against Sherlock's. "Yes. Good."

Sherlock felt a smile stretch the skin at his cheeks and he leaned closer to Jon. Good, he'd said. Good was good. Sherlock could work with good. This potentially meant that Jon had enjoyed the kiss. He certainly seemed not bothered at the very least.

"I wonder if—"

"Ah, boys!" 

Sherlock and Jon jumped back from each other as Diodorus swept down the hallway towards them. "I'm glad I caught you." He looked at Jon, who kept his gaze pinned to the floor. "Have you told him yet?" At this, he looked up.

"Oh, no. Not yet. I forgot."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Tell me what?"

"Jon will not be joining us for lessons for the rest of the week in preparation for the presentation with Cleitomachus." He looked down at Jon fondly, and if Sherlock didn't know any better he might think Diodorus was rather proud.

Oh. Wait.

"You will be gone all week?"

Jon nodded. "Yes. I— Cleitomachus wants to work with me, specially." He added, "Well, and Sebastos and Morsimus a bit, too."

Sherlock ignored a quick stab of jealousy. 

"Ah. Well, that is good news." He swallowed and forced a smile. "You must be doing very well to warrant so much of his attention."

Jon bashfully ducked his head with his trademark humility, but a thought must have crossed his mind for he quickly looked back to him. "You are coming, aren't you?"

Diodorus butted in before Sherlock could respond. "Of course we are. We shall take the day off. I expect you to make us proud, young man." He patted Jon's shoulder and cocked his head, appraising. "Though, perhaps not so young any longer." He clapped his hands together and stepped away. "Well then, I am off to my quarters. Hypnos rest thee well, my dear pupils."

The two said goodnight just as Alcestis wandered towards them, and Sherlock swallowed a groan of impatience.

"Jon, I need to measure you for your new chiton. May I borrow you for a moment before you go to sleep?"

"You may always borrow me, Alcestis," Jon smirked, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. 

She swatted at him with a laugh. "Look at him. I'm not entirely certain where you got this charming, swaggering attitude." She arched a brow. "You certainly have not learned it from anyone in  _this_  household."

Jon shrugged. "What can I say? I am blessed."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and Alcestis giggled and herded him off towards her loom. "Goodnight, Sherlock," she called over her shoulder.

"Sleep well," he murmured.

Sherlock watched them round the corner before all but floating back towards his chambers. His heart felt light and he couldn't get rid of that persistent grin. He shrugged out of his clothing, splashed his face, and deliberated on whether it was too warm to sleep naked. He bit his lip, and a wicked thought surfaced inside his brain that perhaps Jon might visit him in the night. He unwrapped his loincloth.

 _Jon_.

Jon had said,' _Good_.' Jon had enjoyed their kiss. It had not only happened because of the wine in their heads. Sherlock lay back on his cool feather mattress and smiled into the pillow. Ugh, truly, he was pathetic. He may as well be mooning Milo for how sappy he must look. He flipped onto his stomach and hugged his pillow with a satisfied sigh.

Affection.  _Philia_.

Jon wanted physical affection. Perhaps he could even... maybe one day he might return Sherlock's feelings. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to think of only one thing at a time. Sherlock could  _show_  him how he felt and Jon would be helpless but to love him back. In the way Sherlock loved him. He would show him with his lips and his hands.

But again, one thing at a time. First, apparently, they had to get through another week spent mostly apart. That wretched training course. Ah, well. Jon enjoyed it. Sherlock would be sure to push the other side of his education extra hard starting next week.

And with that happy thought, Sherlock allowed himself to slip away.

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys! Someone felt inspired enough to want to draw the scene in the fountain! It's amazing! Teaser images above, and link to the full drawing is [here](http://221booksinthetardis.tumblr.com/post/161781090873/221booksinthetardis-sherlock-gasped-and-nodded)! Tell her how much you love it. <3!!
> 
> Also, another gorgeous image from TheGayDivorcee. _Guh_.  <3 Leave some love at [her tumblr](https://thedepthsofmyshame.tumblr.com/post/162682425797/calyx-krater-paper-model-with-four-scenesinspired).


	9. Book I, Chapter ix

For the first two days, Sherlock tolerated Jon's absence fairly well, and Diodorus made certain to teach on subjects that Jon had little interest in. Primarily, it was mathematical theories and political treatises. The latter nearly drove Sherlock mad with boredom. His tutor insisted it was important for his general education no matter the interest, and since he hadn't ever bothered to pay attention before, he was getting it in now. 

Jon returned home later and later each evening. After a quick wash, he'd shovel food into his mouth as hurriedly as possible before sending Sherlock a sleepy smile and leaving to collapse into bed. Sherlock itched with impatience to spend time with him, or rather,  _intimate_  time with him. It wouldn't do to wait too long to reaffirm that Jon had similar feelings to him. Sherlock made sure to check on him both nights to see that he was well, lingering to watch his chest rise and fall with steady breaths, before retiring to his own room. He hadn't been sleeping well since his over-indulgence after the festival and had stayed up at night working on a list of hieroglyphics to help Jon with his impending Egyptian lessons.

By the middle of the week, Jon was an interesting study in dualities. It was obvious he was excited and satisfied with his progress on the field even while shuffling around at home completely exhausted.

One morning, when Sherlock was making his way to his own lessons, Alcestis stopped him and asked if he wouldn't mind sending Jon his midday meal. The poor thing had forgotten it in his haste to leave early. Sherlock readily agreed, and when the sun had reached its peak, Sherlock set out for the gymnasium.

The day was just shy of being unpleasantly warm, and there was little shade to cover the various pitches that had been added since that first class. Before him, there were boys paired off. Some wrestling, a couple were engaged in fencing, and others were arranged in a typical phalanx and throwing spears. Sherlock shielded his eyes and scanned for Jon, but most were wearing helmets making it hard to find him by his golden locks alone. Farther off there were a few women and very young boys playing in the grass, and two men, separate from the other, were leaning back on their elbows to watch the proceedings. Sherlock thought he recognised one as a peer of his father's, and he decided to follow their example and sat down to wait until a break was called. 

Several minutes in, he watched as four of the older boys broke away at Cleitomachus' instruction, and they pulled off their armour and helmets, moving towards a row of blades leaning against a tree stump. One was Jon, and the others looked to be Sebastos, the new boy, Morsimus, and that moron, Alcaeus. 

Sherlock leaned forward, interested now to observe Jon in his element. He was first paired with Sebastos, and Cleitomachus circled them, adjusting their stances and correcting form. The pair circled as well, and Jon lunged first. Sherlock gasped, surprised at the speed with which he attacked, and his blade clanged against the taller boys'. Sebastos retaliated, and the two lunged and dashed, circling or pausing when called to do so. 

From where he sat, Jon's skin glinted with sweat, and his tunic was held low around his hips by his belt. He brushed his arm against his brow. Sherlock's breath caught and he swiftly berated himself for his foolishness, determined to not cause a scene with his besotted drooling.

Once the first round was over, Jon stepped out of the circle and Alcaeus entered. He stepped closely to Sebastos and, Sherlock's brow arched, ran his blade slowly up the other's. It was rather interesting to watch Sebastos cast an anxious glance to Morsimus, who stood passively by, waiting. Sherlock’s pale eyes darted back to Jon, who was resting on his heels, arms folded over his knees, watching intently. 

The two boys lunged at the other and it was a much wilder thing that was less controlled than the spar with Jon had been. They each moved swiftly, and it ended with Sebastos nearly slicing Alcaeus' ear off, to Morsimus' apparent enjoyment. Jon shook his head, as if disapproving of the victor’s tactics, and then stood up with Morsimus. He had barely put a foot inside the pitch before the dark-haired boy lashed out and Sherlock was on his feet a heartbeat later. Morsimus was vicious in his attack, and Jon only just managed to roll away without the blade cleaving him in two. He retaliated swiftly though, jabbing and swinging. It was a positively horrifying display. Gods above, how could Cleitomachus possibly allow them to attack each other so freely?! It was a wonder no one had already been killed.

Sherlock's palms grew damp, and he gripped the fabric of his tunic and held his breath. Morsimus was obviously skilled, but there was something about his approach that made Sherlock's skin crawl. Twice their tutor had to step in to calm them down, but by the end, Jon was ultimately victorious, and Morsimus broke away from the pitch with a hateful glare.

Cleitomachus called for a break, and the tired, sweaty boys dispersed to their various meals and guests. Sherlock gathered up Jon's lunch and loped towards him. He kept an eye on Morsimus and Sebastos. They were huddled close, speaking furiously, and then Morsimus threw Sebastos' hand off his arm and marched away towards his father's acquaintance. Interesting.

"Sherlock?" Jon called.

He raised his chin in greeting, and purposely avoided looking at Jon's bare chest. He also noticed the way Cleitomachus was obviously doing the same.

"You forgot your food. From the looks of it you will need the nourishment." 

Jon groaned in relief and quickly grabbed for the wrapped parcel, tearing into it. At his side, Cleitomachus greeted Sherlock with an odd look on his handsome face before excusing himself to step away for water. Sherlock settled onto the grass next to Jon while he ate and kept one eye on the interesting things happening among their peers, and the other on their gymnast.

"Are you and Morsimus at odds?"

Jon rolled his eyes. "I'm guessing you saw that." Sherlock nodded. "Bit extreme for practise, I agree. Cleitomachus called him on it, though."

Sherlock cast a glance towards Alcaeus where he sat with his cousin and did a poor job of hiding his palpable glances towards Sebastos.

"Love triangle gone awry?"

Jon snorted. "Something like that." 

Sherlock quirked a brow, urging him to continue.

Jon swallowed. "Best I can work out, Sebastos and Morsimus are... involved. But Alcaeus is also interested in Sebastos, who does not return the sentiment." He furrowed his brow. "I mean, it's obvious the other two have some kind of understanding, but Morsimus is so..." he shuddered. “I don't see how anyone would want to be. Have you seen his eyes? It's like looking into the abyss."

Sherlock chuckled and plucked at a tuft of grass. He looked back to observe the odd boy speaking with the older man, but they were gone. 

"It must be awkward for Sebastos with Morsimus' erastes in attendance."

Jon choked on his chicken and spluttered. "What?"

Sherlock smirked, smug in having worked out that little bit of information before Jon. "It's obvious isn't it? No one's father is here, why would they be? They would all be busy with their professions. The only adults in attendance are other tutors, mothers, or servants and children. Who was that older man sitting by himself, obsessively watching Morsimus, and who has now disappeared with him?"

Jon looked around in surprise. "Ohh. Yes, I suppose that makes sense... ” his nose crinkled in disgust. “He  _would_  have several lovers. He's almost as bad as Cebriones."

Sherlock shook his head. "I suspect he is far more intelligent than Cebriones. He knows precisely what he's doing. Choosing brawn and strategic placement as requirements for those in his association." He looked over to his friend. "Be careful around him."

Jon returned his stare just as sternly. "And you. He asks me about you now and then. I think he's interested in collecting you, as well."

"He doesn't have a chance."

Jon huffed and smiled fondly.

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat and he dared to add, "I've already been collected."

Jon's smile slowly slipped to be replaced by something much more...  _more_. Something heated. Jon licked his lips and his eyes darted down to Sherlock's. "Is that so," he murmured.

Sherlock's stomach buzzed again with bees and he desperately wanted to reach out and touch Jon.

"Does this person," Jon continued, "know that I may have something to say about that?"

The corner of Sherlock's lips quirked a grin. "He might. Though, perhaps you would do well to show rather than tell."

Jon stared at Sherlock a long moment so that Sherlock began to panic, thinking himself too bold.  But then Jon rose to his feet and reached a hand down to him. "Come with me."

Sherlock scrambled to his feet and took his hand, his mind already skipping ahead to several possible conclusions. Jon led them towards a thicket of trees ringing the gymnasium’s clearing, and Sherlock's stomach swooped with excitement. A low curl of heat was building deep in his abdomen and he blindly followed after Jon. They picked their way through the first row of oak and olive trees, but Jon didn't stop, choosing instead to venture farther in. Sherlock's hand grew damp where it was clasped with Jon's and he could hear his pulse thundering in his veins. 

He heard something else, too.

"Jon, wait." He pulled on his hand to slow him and cocked his ear. Jon turned around, and Sherlock’s stomach fluttered at the blackness of his eyes. His pupils had swallowed most of the deep blue of his irises. Sherlock held a finger up to his lips and strained his ears.

After a beat, Jon blinked and his mouth slid open. "Is that..."

"Shh," he breathed. He jerked his head to the right, and they quietly followed the sounds of what was unmistakably someone moaning. 

There was a clearing just ahead, and both boys halted in their steps when the sight of Morsimus and the man who had been watching the practise met their gaze. The man's chiton was rucked up around his hips, and Morsimus was on his knees with the man's prick in his mouth.

Jon's breath gusted out of him and he gripped Sherlock's hand tightly. Sherlock's own mouth dropped open in surprise and he watched in fascination, even as his own prick curiously throbbed with interest.

" _Fellatio_ ," he breathed. He'd heard about this but never— he was startled from his thoughts as Jon abruptly dragged him away to crash through the brush.

Arousal flooded Sherlock's body as Jon led them away and he blinked through the dizziness of anticipation. He reached his empty hand towards Jon and slid it along his bare back, not able to stand the fact that they weren't touching. Jon spun around, pressing his hands to Sherlock's hips and pinning him back against a large oak. Sherlock moaned helplessly at the feel of Jon pushing his body into Sherlock's, and then lips crashing against his own set his blood on fire. Instantly, he opened his mouth to Jon's seeking tongue and swirled his own against it. Jon slid one arm around his waist, and pushed a long, almost bare thigh in between his own, and pulled Sherlock close. One hand fisted in his curls and tugged, and Sherlock blushed at the sound he made. Jon had obviously remembered his reaction from the last time he’d done that.

Frantically, his own hands gripped at every part of Jon they could, and he delighted in running his fingers over firm, sun warm shoulders. He wrapped an arm around his neck and melted into Jon, licking into his mouth and savouring the unique taste of him. It was better than wine. 

Jon nipped at his lip and then plunged his tongue messily once more into his mouth. Though neither had much experience at this, he could not imagine anything feeling better. Feeling so intimate and pleasurable. It was as if their bodies had taken leave of their usual senses and were acting on instinct alone. An instinct that insisted Sherlock open his mouth wider, demanded he press closer to that solid warmth. Sherlock's body was trembling and he could hardly believe what was happening. The feel of Jon's skin shocked his own like lightening, and when he registered the feeling of something hot and hard pressing up against the crease of his thigh, he groaned as another wave of desire threatened to buckle his knees. Jon  _wanted_  him. Jon was  _aroused_  because of him. Of what they were  _doing_. Sherlock, too, was hard in his loincloth, but Jon was bare under the scrap of cotton that separated them. His mind flashed back to the sight of Morsimus suckling the man in the clearing and he felt his skin grow even hotter. He could do that. Would Jon want that? Was that too soon? Were there steps to these sorts of things? 

"Sherlock," Jon moaned into his mouth. Jon broke away to kiss his jaw and then the tender flesh of his neck. Sherlock gasped as Jon licked a spot just below his ear that made his hips jerk. Jon had kissed him many times before but it had not ever felt  _that_  good.

"Oh my."

Jon and Sherlock froze where they stood, and panted into each other's faces as the voice of their intruder came closer. Were Sherlock's cheeks not already flushed from desire he'd have turned beet red in embarrassment.

"It seems I wasn't the only one to interrupt a tryst in the forest." Morsimus calmly walked past them on his way back to the pitch. Sherlock felt Jon's hands clasp him tighter. Morsimus winked at them and paused. Sherlock noted his tunic was clean, hair smoothed, and were his knees not red from where they’d pressed into dry twigs and leaves on the forest floor he looked otherwise unrumpled.

"Cleitomachus is calling for us." Morsimus looked into Sherlock's eyes, and he fought an urge to flinch. "Just thought you ought to know," he murmured before continuing on and leaving them alone once more.

Their chests heaved as they struggled to catch their breath. Jon groaned and leaned his weight into him against the tree. 

"I hate that he saw that," he grumbled into his chest.

Sherlock carefully stroked his back and forced his knees to straighten out. "It's fine." Jon tilted his head up, and Sherlock leaned forward to nuzzle his nose. "We saw  _him_ , after all."

Jon hummed and reached up to press a sweet kiss to his lips. "I suppose I should go, then."

Sherlock nodded but did not release him. Jon chuckled and tickled his ribs until Sherlock twitched and jumped away. His body briefly lit up at the touch, and he wished desperately that Jon’s hands were back on him with more amorous intentions.

"Will you be... late again tonight?" Sherlock asked, hoping he didn't sound as needy as he suspected.

A look of contrition flashed across Jon’s face and he shrugged. "Possibly. We have a lot yet to go over and if I don't stay on top of it, well, Morsimus...." he trailed off.

Sherlock stepped towards him, already missing the feel of him. "Right." Then Jon’s words registered and he straightened his spine. “Yes, of course. Jon, please be careful."

Cleitomachus' voice carried through the trees and Jon made to leave. Without thinking, Sherlock swiftly reached out and grabbed his hand to tug him back. He enfolded Jon in a strong embrace, sliding his tongue between his lips before Jon could protest. Instead, his friend instantly pulled him in close and opened his mouth to deepen the kiss with a groan. Sherlock pulled back with a smug smirk.

Jon groaned again, for a different reason, and shot Sherlock a glare. "I have to go back out there, you know," he said gesturing to the faint tenting of cloth between his thighs.

Sherlock licked his lips and arched a brow. "Well, imagine Alcaeus naked." Jon recoiled with disgust, and Sherlock laughed, giddy with excitement and possibility.

Jon shook his head. "I will make you pay for that later."

"We shall see." Sherlock watched Jon race off through the trees towards the pitch, and he spun on his heel with a sigh. His heart fluttered happily, and a warm glow settled within his chest. Jon had again pursued him. Perhaps his friend could forget his lunch again tomorrow? Sherlock would have no trouble bringing it to him once more, especially if he could inspire another similar outcome.

He grinned like a fool the entire walk home.

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

To force himself to stop thinking only thoughts of his friend, of their heated moment in the woods, Sherlock threw himself into his scrolls for the rest of the day. Diodorus had assigned him another series on Plato, and Sherlock was just beginning to be fully immersed in the legendary story of the isle of Atlantis, when his mother interrupted him that evening.

"You have a visitor," she said. 

Sherlock blinked up at his mother, momentarily confused. Rarely had he personally ever had  _visitors_. He nodded and took note of the darkness outside. Standing from his chair with a stretch, the hangings to his room were swept aside, and Sherlock was met with the cool gaze of Morsimus. The boy let his eyes trail over every surface of his room, and Sherlock felt a prickling of irritation at allowing him access to so much personal information.

"This is a surprise," he drawled. A dozen reasons for why he might show up, unannounced, ran through Sherlock's mind. He was both as uneasy as he was curious.

"Mmm," Morsimus hummed. His gaze fell upon the grotesque, black oil lamp on his desk, and he flitted towards it for a closer examination. "This is interesting."

"A gift."

"For me?" the boy smiled, batting his eyelashes.

Sherlock's lips thinned and he reached forward to snatch it back. "No.”

Morsimus cooed and presented a bunch of greenery with dark flowers, which Sherlock recognised as belladonna. “But I brought you a gift.”

Sherlock eyed the toxic little plant with distaste. “What do you want?"

Morsimus sighed and ambled his way towards the bed, sat down, and then beamed up at Sherlock coquettishly. "Can't a fellow drop in on a new friend for a visit?"

On the one hand, his mother and Jon would tell him to be polite to a guest. On the other, Sherlock did not trust the boy as far as he could throw him, and every instinct was telling him to proceed with caution.

"I suppose that would depend on the definition of our acquaintance."

"Ah, I see. I think I am wounded."

Sherlock arched a brow and set his lamp aside, leaning back against the desk.

"I was sent here to bring a message from Jon, but perhaps I should I leave, instead."

Sherlock stood up straight. "What message?" 

Morsimus shrugged and ran his hands over the soft silk of Sherlock's coverlet, making an appreciative noise. "I  _knew_  you were a hedonist. I bet this feels sinfully good against bare skin, mm?"

"What message? I do hate to repeat myself."

Morsimus continued fondling his bedclothes and stared at his pillows like he might want to settle in for a rest. "Oh, nothing so dramatic." He looked back up to Sherlock. "He's just going to be a bit later than usual. Cleitomachus really has his claws set in tonight, you see."

Sherlock swallowed back the roiling sensation in his stomach and fought to keep his expression neutral. "Yes, well, he has been working hard and your final assembly is soon."

"Mm," Morsimus smirked. "Of course. That must be it."

Sherlock frowned and crossed his arms across his chest. "Are you implying something else?"

Morsimus rose and stepped slowly towards him. "I'm not implying anything. Not really. We all have eyes and you use yours better than most."

A flash of anger burned through Sherlock's chest. "Indeed we do. How  _is_  your friend from earlier? His name is Epistor, is it not?" Morsimus' eyes briefly widened in surprise. "Friend of my father's." Sherlock sneered. "How very interesting that he's taken an erômenos when I understood he was one of the elite decrying such outdated traditions."

Morsimus snorted. "It will be a cold day in Olympus before such, ' _traditions_ ' are cast aside, my dear." He let his eyes drop to Sherlock's lips. "His opinion certainly isn't popular, but it is so very fashionable to be in the minority these days." His dark, black eyes looked back up to Sherlock's. "Gets you noticed, at any rate."

"And you are intent on being noticed."

Morsimus spun away with a giggle. "Oh no, I much prefer to keep to shadows." He wrinkled his nose. "Public attention, well, the  _public_  in general, is just horrid." He feigned a shudder. "So many unwashed bodies. So many questions."

Sherlock crossed the room towards the door and held open the drapes. "Well, this has been an enlightening conversation. Thank you for stopping by."

Morsimus made a moue of disappointment. "Not going to ask me to stay?" He approached Sherlock and ran a finger down his arm. Sherlock flinched. "I was under the impression that this bed saw regular visitors."

Sherlock frowned, eyes cutting towards his bed and the discarded bunch of belladonna that lay there.

"Blond hair does tend to catch the light so much easier than our darker strands," he whispered. He sighed wistfully and turned towards the door. "We could be friends, you and I."

"I do not need friends," Sherlock clipped. 

"Jon might have something to say about that." Morsimus cast a look over his shoulder from the hall. "Though, perhaps ' _friend'_  is too informal now. Suppose I can't fault you, though. Aesthetically, he's quite pretty. He'll make a good fuck one day." He looked up in thought. "Unless he's already started tonight."

Sherlock's fingers were turning white where they gripped the fabric between them and he spoke through clenched teeth. "Goodnight."

Morsimus was already strolling away down the hall as if it were his own home. "It is, isn't it? Sleep well!"

Sherlock barely heard his mother calling her own bewildered goodbyes through the rushing sound in his head. He focused on breathing and reminding himself that Morsimus was not entirely… right. He was more inclined to mischief than even he, and his intentions were questionable at best and alarming at worse. To even suggest that Jon might… he blinked and shuffled towards his bed. Hateful images flashed in his mind’s eye, and the ugly burn of jealousy creeped up into his throat.

The only possible person he might even…. Sherlock’s fingers dug into his coverlet. Cleitomachus  _was_  interested in Jon. That much was obvious. Though, he hadn’t thought his interest had grown into anything potentially serious – he shook his head with a growl. No. Morsimus was stirring up trouble. He was not sure why the foul little cretin sought to bring trouble to them, but Jon had said to be careful around him.

Sherlock anxiously chewed on his lower lip and thought. It was properly dark out now, so the sun had dipped below the horizon at least an hour ago. Tomorrow was their assembly. Of course it made sense that Cleitomachus would keep Jon longer, especially if he were taking part in some sort of extra performance.

He stood up and paced the length of his room. There was no way he would be able to return to Plato that night. Not until Jon was home safely.

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

When Jon did return, he shuffled towards his room on the tips of his toes, gripping something in his hands. Sherlock watched from the dark, silent, until Jon slipped into his room before following after.

“What is that you have?”

“By the gods!” Jon jumped and swore. He clutched at his chest and exhaled loudly. “Damn your silence, I did not even see you,” he berated.

Sherlock shrugged and stepped closer to Jon. “You did not answer my question.”

Jon groaned, holding a pale object closer to his chest. “ _‘Good evening, Jon. How was your training? You must be tired. I missed you.’_ ” Jon moved to where his oil lamp was burning and set the object down. He turned back to Sherlock with his arms crossed over his chest. “Any of those would have been an acceptable form of greeting.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and moved towards the object, already knowing what it was. The knowledge did nothing to quell the rising sense of panic in his chest.

“Did Morsimus—”

“Yes.”

Jon stood stiffly behind him. “It was a gift,” he finally murmured.

“A gift?” Sherlock picked up the smooth, surprisingly heavy vessel and peered at the intricate designs carved into the surface. “This is an alabastron,” he whispered.

“It is,” Jon confirmed.

Sherlock nodded, setting it back down. “Why would your gymnast give you such a fine thing?”

Jon scoffed. “Many people have them, Sherlock. Especially warriors and athletes.”

Sherlock spun around with a glare. “Most do not have carved alabaster to hold their perfumed oils in, Jon. Terra cotta, perhaps, but  _not_  alabaster. This could feed a family of four for months.”

Jon raised his chin. “Are you suggesting it is too fine for me?”

Sherlock stepped back, surprised. “No. No, of course not. You deserve the best things.”

“Then why are you so obviously upset?”

“It is the person who gave this to you whose intentions I question.”

“But you question everything.” He paused as a thought flashed across his face. “Oh, gods, you’re jealous again.” Jon threw his hands up and turned away from him. “Why am I not surprised? Every time. Every  _single_  time.”

The pressure in Sherlock’s chest grew, and he stepped again towards his friend. “ _No_ , it isn’t – Jon, surely you can see what this means.”

Jon spun back again, angry, and moved in close with a scowl across his face. “I am sure I will hear of it one way or another, so for Hera’s sake have your say already. Is  _his_ father going to invite me for supper to arrange a future marriage, too?” 

Sherlock moved in until their chests were touching and his eyes narrowed as he brought his face in close to Jon’s. “You look me in the eye and tell me he is not interested in claiming you. At every moment I have seen him look at you his eyes have been filled with lust and envy. He  _desires_  you. Do not lie and tell me you haven’t seen it.”

Jon met his stare and breathed for several moments, neither confirming nor denying it. Each passing second sliced into Sherlock’s heart until he felt it would bleed within his chest.

Jon blew out a breath and cast his gaze downward. “I do not deny that it is… more extravagant than I would have—”

Sherlock scoffed and ran his fingers through his hair. Jon quieted and stared at the stone floor.

“Has he already asked you?” Sherlock asked with a wooden voice.

“Asked me what?”

“Do not be stupid nor insulting.”

Jon shook his head. “I have been not asked anything other than to get good night’s rest and to do my best tomorrow.”

Sherlock nodded. This was not at all what he had envisioned seeing Jon tonight would be like. He had been hoping for a much pleasanter reunion. He swallowed back the lump in his throat. “Do you want him to?”

Jon groaned and flopped down onto his bed, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. “You are unbelievable.”

“Please answer me.”

“And how many times do I have to say the same thing over and over when you get like this?” Jon looked up at him then, but instead of anger, there was a deep sadness in his eyes. He sighed. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s breath caught and his fingers twitched with a need to touch him. To be reassured that his affections were not misplaced. That Jon wanted him as he wanted Jon.

His voice was barely a rush a breath and lips trembled. “Please.”

Jon stared at him and rose. He crossed to stand before him and placed warm palms on either side of Sherlock’s face. “Go to sleep.”

Sherlock flinched away from his touch and stormed out of the room.

 

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, feedback and con crit appreciated. I know this is a bit of a different story for our boys, but I hope it's fun nonetheless. :)


	10. Book I, Chapter x

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of the assembly has arrived.

The morning meal was predictably tense. Alcestis murmured a prayer to Ares, something she was not often wont to do, and even poured out a small libation to Athena, just to be safe.

"I want assurance that you shall be watched over even as you amaze us all with your prowess," she said with a wink to her adopted son.

When they had eaten their fill, she went out to meet Diodorus before they were to all leave together. Sherlock sat quietly on his seat, still jealous over the meaning of Jon's extravagant gift, but also dealing with the shame of his uncontrolled jealousy. He knew it was at least a little bit warranted, and by the gods, Sherlock would fight for Jon. Somehow. He knew he couldn't possibly best the gymnast physically, but there must be something he could find on him to make his interest go away.

Jon swept past him, having not uttered a word to him yet that morning, and Sherlock heard him pause in his steps. He jumped when an unexpected hand settled across his neck, and he twisted around to look up.

Jon gazed down at him, shaking his head. "Do not be so troubled. Today is supposed to be a happy one." He looked away and bit his lip. "I just… I want to do well. To please you. And your family. I want you to be proud."

Sherlock's eyes widened and he placed his hand atop Jon's. "I _am_ proud. I am always proud of y—" his words were swallowed by Jon's lips. The blond quickly dipped down, stealing Sherlock's breath with a fierce and unexpected kiss, and Sherlock surged up into him, sliding a hand around his neck.

Jon pulled away much too quickly, casting a nervous glance at the doorway. Sherlock's blood pounded in his veins, and he blinked up at Jon in a daze. The older boy smirked and reached a hand down for his.

"Let's not quarrel. Come. Tell me how brilliant I am and how triumphant I will be today."

Sherlock laughed and squeezed Jon's hand. "I hardly think you need any further ego stroking."

Jon nudged his shoulder and leaned up to whisper in his ear. "I always enjoy your stroking, though."

Sherlock would have tripped over his feet had Jon not been beside him.

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

When they arrived at the gymnasium, there were dozens and dozens of people gathered to watch their boys and to meet the famed Cleitomachus. Several men were milling about, talking and drinking from skeins of wine their servants had brought. Before Alcestis and Diodorus left to find a good seat, she kissed Jon on the top of his head and wished him good fortune. Sherlock decided to linger a bit longer with Jon before the students were called to prepare.

Feeling emboldened by Jon's display earlier, he leaned in. "Would you like me to give you my own special kind of luck in the forest?"

Jon bit his lips to keep from smiling, and peered up at Sherlock from under his golden lashes. "I would, indeed. Though, we don't have much time to go the forest."

"Hmm. I happened to notice a rather large oak not too far off…"

Jon stood close and discreetly tangled his fingers with Sherlock's, hidden in the folds of their chitons, and squeezed. "I swear you delight in compromising me before a competition."

Sherlock smirked and rubbed the back of his fingers over Jon's hip before pulling away to put a more appropriate distance between them. It wasn't a good time to announce to all in attendance the new status of their relationship, especially not to his mother. His gaze managed to land on the hulking figure of Cleitomachus, who had dressed in his finest military garb for the occasion. The armour at his shins gleamed in the sun, as did the xiphos strung at his waist. He was surrounded by men and women, all vying for a chance to speak with him, or to gaze up at him with adoration.

"I only care about one competition with regards to you."

Jon turned to him. "There is no competition, Sherlock. You have to know that."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but Alcaeus chose that moment to slam into his shoulder, knocking him off balance. Jon steadied him and then bandied up to Alcaeus, fists clenched at his side.

"That was un-called for."

"My apologies. I cannot help that he did not see me coming. Perhaps he should practise using his eyes for more than looking at you."

Sherlock snorted. "Ah, so you _can_ tell when someone is interested in another. It must be sheer, stubborn-minded stupidity that keeps you pursuing those who could care less."

Alcaeus puffed out his chest and took a step forward. Jon smoothly stepped in front of Sherlock and cocked his head, eyeing the other up and down. Sherlock knew Jon had already mapped his weak points and could lay him out in mere seconds if he chose to.

"I wouldn't," Jon said. His eyes flashed dangerously, and Alcaeus only hesitated a moment before backing down.

"No matter. We will have plenty of time to exorcise our aggression on the pitch."

"Indeed," Jon murmured.

Alcaeus turned and sauntered off, strutting around in what looked to be new leather sandals and acting as if he were a god amongst the people. Sherlock rolled his eyes and suspected he knew exactly where he was going. Sebastos and Morsimus were lurking off to the side, and Alcaeus was just enough of a fool to try to win Sebastos' favour one more time before the games were to begin. To have someone whose 'honour' he would fight to win. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

It was at this point that Cleitomachus separated from his admirers, and he and Grigórios began gathering their students together. Jon turned to Sherlock with a grin.

"Wish me favour with the gods."

Sherlock leaned in close enough to feel the heat faintly rolling off of Jon's excited body. "You do not need it."

Jon's eyes widened and he smacked Sherlock on the arm. "Do not say that! Not _now_."

Sherlock laughed and placed a hand upon his bicep with a smile. "You don't _need_ it because you already _have_ it."

Jon smiled and relaxed. "You are an absolute terror."

Sherlock winked. "Yes."

Jon leaned in, as if drawn, and Sherlock could not stop his body from swaying closer. Their faces tilted, and even though he knew this would not be a good idea, he licked his lips, ready to press them against Jon's when a commotion behind them made them both jump and step back. There was a muffled curse, and Sherlock just saw Morsimus stumble gracelessly onto his backside. Sebastos instantly shoved an enraged Alcaeus, and was gathering back his fist when Cleitomachus stepped between them.

"Enough," the gymnast chastised. He placed a large palm against both boys' chests and glared at each. "Save it for the pitch. Now off with you. _Go_."

Alcaeus sneered down at Morsimus and turned to stalk away. Sebastos reached an arm down to tug the smaller boy up, who glared daggers at his offender. Sherlock had a very bad feeling about that look. Morsimus was the wrong person to upset and did not seem as if he were the type to quickly forget slights. Then again, Alcaeus _was_ an idiot.

Cleitomachus moved to them and placed a hand gently on Jon's back. "Come, Jon."

Sherlock balled his own fists to keep from pushing the hand away.

"I will be right behind you," Jon said.

The older gymnast nodded and moved away to the rest of the group, while the audience settled themselves to watch the assembly.

Sherlock took Jon's hand and placed his other on Jon's chest. "Please be safe." His eyes darted to Morsimus and Sebastos. As if feeling his gaze, Morsimus looked back over his shoulder and threw a smirk at Sherlock. "Do not engage either of them needlessly. Morsimus will most likely try to unsettle you."

Jon smiled and placed his free hand at Sherlock's waist. "There is nothing you need worry about. Except how loudly you will cheer my name."

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

The assembly began with a brief speech by Cletiomachus about what principles had been drilled into the boys, what manoeuvres they learned, and what they should expect to see that day.

It was followed by group exercises demonstrating their use of phalanx formations, involving spears and colourful war cries by the youngest ones, to the delight of their parents. They then moved on to demonstrations of their newly-acquired archery skills and precision with javelin throwing. There was a quick break for the next segment, during which the boys removed their tunics, while servants assisted with the traditional oiling of skin in preparation for sparring. Sherlock tried his very hardest not to watch Jon oil himself, nor to appreciate the way the sun sparkled across his glistening body. When his groin stirred he abruptly dragged his gaze away and snuck one peek at Alcaeus, which was more than enough to put a damper on his quickly heating desires.

The younger ones began first, showing off various grappling positions meant to display their proficiencies at obeying commands and mastering control of their young bodies. They then were paired off for sparring, competing against each successive winner until the final two remained. Cleitomachus, and especially Grigórios, looked on with fiercely proud expressions upon their faces. Though, neither could compare to the look upon the young victor's face when he was declared champion. He was given a small, terra cotta aryballos of perfumed oil, which hung on a leather strap around his wrist. With this, he swaggered over towards the older boys, who affectionately cuffed his head, and patted him heartily on his gleaming back.

The older boys stepped forward to demonstrate more elaborate techniques, and Sherlock had to bite his tongue to keep quiet as Jon was placed prominently in the centre. It was now more obvious than ever how much the training had altered his physique. Jon had a graceful command of his body, and Sherlock heard more than one young girl sigh whilst he performed.

Once the sparring session began, the adults really started to get vocal, with people cheering their sons and favourites. Jon seemed to pull the loudest cheers, and Sherlock's chest glowed with pride. He, his mother, and even Diodorus, cried out for him and chanted his name.

Jon beat his first competitor effortlessly, pinning him with a clever move in less than thirty seconds. He beamed around at the audience, and when the next pair stepped into the pitch, cheered his fellows on. He caught Sherlock's eye a few times, and Sherlock would've sworn aloud at how easily he blushed if he weren't adamantly trying to keep his reactions neutral. Unfortunately, his mother glanced at him once when this happened, and raised a subtle brow in response. Sherlock did his best to contain his reactions for the rest of the set.

When the final two remained, and of course it was between Jon and Sebastos, Sherlock was on his feet, cheering with the rest of the crowd. Both were talented, but Sebastos had the advantage of height and weight. In the end, however, it was Jon's cleverness and speed that brought him glory, and he pinned the larger boy beneath him until Cleitomachus loudly proclaimed him the champion.

The crowd erupted into a raucous applause, and Sherlock might even have jumped in excitement himself. Jon quickly sprang away from his opponent and offered his hand to Sebastos, who reluctantly took it, mouth twisted with a grimace. After, Jon's eyes again sought Sherlock's and he flashed him a blinding smile. Sherlock's felt his insides melt as if they'd become warmed honey.

"He is very talented," a man behind them said, leaning towards Alcestis.

"Yes," Sherlock breathed, eyes tracking him across the field, where the rest of the class were donning their armour and preparing for the final demonstration. Swordsmanship.

This final exhibition passed quickly. The littlest ones' armour clinked and their blunted swords pinged harmlessly off the others. They demonstrated their stances, lunges, and other moves that honestly bored Sherlock until he finally gave up the pretence of paying attention and simply went back to watching Jon.

He was standing calmly beside Grigórios and Sebastos with Morsimus hovering nearby. The dark-eyed youth murmured something to Sebastos, who smirked and looked at Jon with a hateful grin. Jon shifted on his feet and gripped his sword. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Morsimus. Jon had not said what their extra performance would entail, though he had said it would involve those two.

The older boys roused themselves for presentation, lining up and arranging their weapons at their sides. As in the sparring session, they were paired off with duelling partners. Only this time, neither Jon nor Morsimus were included. Sherlock had frowned as the last pair finished, and his mother leaned towards him.

"This must be the secret Jon alluded to."

A sense of unease settled over Sherlock like an unwelcome blanket, and he nodded, hoping against hope that what he was beginning to suspect would happen would not. Putting Jon anywhere near a Morsimus armed with a blade sounded like his worst nightmare.

When Cleitomachus called for the boys to settle, he stepped forward and addressed the crowd. "I have been honoured to teach your sons this brief introduction to the ways of battle. They have all performed admirably, and their families should be proud. I have no doubt that should any of them wish to pursue a military career, they would do well."

He smiled back at his charges, who proudly beamed in response.

"It happens that during the course of my many travels I meet those who are especially gifted. It is rare to have two in one group, but I am pleased to say that it is so here." He gestured for Jon and Morsimus to step forward. "Jon, whose patron is Septimius of Athens; and Morsimus, son of Molpagorus of Sparta. Both have demonstrated their many talents at this gymnasium, and it is their elevated skills with a blade that you shall have the honour of witnessing today."

He stepped back, and the pair assumed their positions, preparing to fight. Sherlock's heart hammered in his chest and he felt sweat bead along his brow. He hastily murmured a prayer to Apollo, Jon's chosen patron, to protect and bless him. The crowd held its breath as seconds crept by in tense stillness.

Morsimus was the first to attack. The crowd collectively gasped at the speed with which his blade rushed at Jon, and Sherlock's teeth ground together at the sound of vicious metal connecting.

The two went back and forth, circling each other and lunging. The first few minutes seemed to be structured so that it was less about fighting, and more about artful skill and movement. Begrudgingly, Sherlock had to admit that the additional hours of training, if that indeed was the only reason Cleitomachus had kept him so late, (which it was not) were well spent. Jon was a marvel to watch. He moved effortlessly and with precision. Had their weapons not been so potentially lethal, it would have been a beautifully choreographed sight to behold. Jon was very quick, and very intelligent, nearly always anticipating Morsimus' moves. But Morsimus was ruthless, and soon his strikes became less aesthetic and more deadly. After a third near miss, Alcestis swore quietly, clutching her peplos and looked as if poised to stand.

"How can Cleitomachus approve of this?" She winced as the blade narrowly missed Jon's stomach, and the crowd gasped again. "This is madness! Someone should stop this. Surely, a demonstration should not be so wreckless?"

Sherlock nodded, and the pinched look on Diodorus' face indicated he agreed as well.

Jon twirled away from a wicked slash aimed at his thigh, and retaliated with a swing towards Morsimus' back and Sherlock swore he hit skin. The crowd cried out, but Jon smiled, triumphant, as it was revealed he had only split the fabric of Morsimus' tunic, rather than his flesh. There was thunderous applause, and Morsimus stilled, chest heaving. Jon swirled his blade, circling his prey like a lion might a wounded animal. The boys stared at each other, and Sherlock watched as Morsimus spoke something for Jon's ears only. Jon's step faltered and he threw a look of utter loathing at him, and it was that moment that Sherlock felt true fear for his friend. Morsimus was doing precisely what Sherlock had warned Jon he would do. Jon was a kind, warm person, but he had a temper that was quick to flare, and Morsimus was purposely manipulating that fact. Sherlock slid forward in his seat as Jon's lip curled and he cried out, lunging wildly at Morsimus.

"No, Jon," Sherlock breathed, standing now and wringing his hands. "Don't engage him." Beside him, his mother was also on her feet, her lips busy chanting a prayer of protection. The two slashed at each other, grunting and crying out. Their blades were silver blurs that just missed piercing flesh time and time again. At last, the crowd began to stir and mumble anxiously. Like Sherlock, they were finally beginning to sense that something wasn't quite right, or perhaps safe, and more than once Sherlock tore his eyes away to glare at Cleitomachus. The muscled gymnast stood to the side, watching the pair intently with a furrowed brow. To his credit, he also looked uncomfortable, and Sherlock noted the muscles in his great thighs quivered with aborted steps towards the pitch.

"Why doesn't he stop this?" his mother asked again between clenched teeth.

Morsimus dodged a particularly sharp downward swing, and then time seemed to slow as Sherlock watched his retaliating move: a horizontal cut which sliced into the skin of Jon's abdomen. Sherlock's breath left in a rush and all other sounds faded to the background except Jon's audible gasp from the pitch. The blond stilled in shock and looked down to the bright red line blossoming into the white fabric of his tunic.

Alcestis cried out and immediately ran towards the pitch with Sherlock following blindly after. The gathered assembly roared in surprise and dismay behind them, while ahead, Jon growled and launched himself at Morsimus. Jon's reaction must not have been what Morsimus was expecting, chiefly hand-to-hand combat, and was swiftly overtaken. He landed on his back with a huff, sand flying around them, and Jon's fist gathered back before pounding into his cheek. Morsimus attempted to throw him, but Jon was quicker, grabbing him and spinning him around into a tight headlock. His forearm wound around his neck, cutting off his air supply and turning the smaller boy's face a livid red. Finally, Cleitomachus rushed forward, brow furrowed and arms waving to call the match off.

Sherlock stumbled through the sand as soon as his feet hit it, and he watched as Jon was pulled away by several of their peers before collapsing onto his back. Blood soaked through the front of his tunic now, and he blinked up into the sky.

"Jon!" Sherlock cried, falling to his knees beside his mother, who was tearing at the sopping fabric and hurling obscenities at both Cleitomachus and Morsimus. A gathered group of boys shuffled awkwardly around them, each with varying looks of concern marring their expressions. Sherlock settled beside Jon's shoulders and leaned over his head, blocking them from view. Jon blinked up at him and gave him a slow grin. Sherlock's shaky hands reached for his face, cupping his cheeks and wishing he could pull him close and force everyone else away. His heart was pounding wildly and he was fairly certain he was breathing even faster than Jon.

"Let me see, _oraiótatos_ ," Alcestis murmured, gently probing the skin around the wound. Sherlock's vision swam at the sight of so much blood, of Jon's blood, and he clutched at him more tightly.

"It's fine," Jon ground out, twitching away from her fingers. "It is a scratch."

"It is _not_ ," Sherlock spat. He glared up at a smug-looking Morsimus, who was nevertheless rubbing at the reddened skin around his neck. Sebastos stood behind him with a hand at his back.

"He is right," Cleitomachus said. His brows were knit as he examined the wound, which was not a slash through his abdomen so much as a slice at his hip. "Nothing major has been punctured. It is merely a flesh wound. His blood was up which makes it look worse." He smiled kindly down at Jon. "You will be fine."

Alcestis sighed in relief, and Sherlock leaned down to press his forehead against Jon's as relief washed over him.

"You are an idiot," he murmured, trembling and so, so grateful it really was a scratch and nothing worse. He was startled by a sudden, fierce arm around his neck from his mother, who was clutching both of them to her.

"I do not like _swords_ ," she swore. Jon chuckled, and then winced.

Cleitomachus crouched down to rest his palm atop Jon's head, rubbing slowly back and forth, and Sherlock's skin crawled. He wanted to throw it off. He wanted to curse him for placing Jon in danger, but the man was currently glaring fiercely up at Morsimus, so he delayed.

"That was not the agreement, Morsimus. You were both told to do no harm. Not for a demonstration. It was dishonourable and there can be no dishonour among warriors."

Morsimus smiled, affecting a look of contrition. "Forgive us. I suppose the heat of battle swept us both away." He directed his black gaze down to Jon. "Didn't it?"

Fury bubbled up in Sherlock's veins, but Jon met Morsimus' gaze with a curled lip. The two stared at each other in silence until, eventually, Jon jerked his chin once and then struggled to rise. Sherlock's arm was instantly around his back, easing him, but Jon shrugged him off and got to his feet. He plucked at the sticky tunic and tisked.

"I have ruined this. I'm sorry, Alcestis."

Her eyes widened in disbelief and a startled laughed blurted from her lips. "That is the least of my worries, Jon."

He forced a tight smile and then strode away from Sherlock and the bloodied sand, limping only a little, to show the audience that he was well. This was met with uproarious applause. Jon demurely dropped his head and dipped a slight bow to the audience before turning back to Cleitomachus, who was smiling at him with radiant pride. Sherlock's stomach twisted in knots at the sudden, differing mass of emotions trying to overpower the other. Relief, confusion, jealousy, fear, anger... his head was spinning.

The gymnast then moved forward to address the assembled audience, closing out the day with his prepared, if not slightly unsteady speech; of which Sherlock could care less. He resolved to remain by Jon's side, even as he was shooing everyone else so he could strip and wash away the blood before leaving for home. Alcestis ran a soft hand over his cheek and assured him that a fine, hot meal would be awaiting them when Cleitomachus approached her. She turned to the man with an enquiring brow, and he gently pulled her aside, leaning in close to her ear. Sherlock's instincts prickled and he watched with narrowed eyes as the man spoke quietly to his mother. Sherlock just managed to catch her brows rising in surprise before she turned with her back facing him. Around them people were dispersing and breaking away to their families and homes. The sounds of their excited chatter following them.

Sherlock strained his ears to hear the conversation. "What is he doing?" he asked Jon.

Jon shrugged and pulled off his filthy tunic with a grimace. "No idea." A young maid stepped forward with a large vessel of water, and Jon nodded before she slowly poured it over his head. His hands quickly scrubbed the sand, dirt, and blood from his skin. When the water ran out, he shook his head like a dog, sending water droplets in all directions. He winced and gently touched the wound at his hip with a hiss before tossing a cheeky grin over his shoulder to Sherlock. "That stings a bit."

Sherlock stared at him. "You are fortunate that is all it does."

Jon shrugged and reached for his spare tunic.

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

After far too long, Sherlock and his relations finally made their way along the forest path towards home. Several times people had stopped them to congratulate Jon, to exclaim over his greatness. To gush over the fact that the gods had obviously blessed him. Jon's confidence grew with each comment, and Sherlock had smiled to see him so happy. Flesh wound, aside.

Jon had his arm slung around Sherlock's neck, at Sherlock's insistence. His mother walked on the other side of him, and Sherlock kept throwing her glances. Her lips were pinched, and her eyes were focussed elsewhere in deep thought. A troubled, deep thought. He squeezed the hand around Jon's waist tighter. He had a feeling her disturbed expression had something to do with Cleitomachus.

The forest was a welcome respite of quiet, with only the soft susurrus of their footsteps on hard-packed earth, or the occasional crunch of a raspy leaf or broken twig. A few neighbours who were taking the same path ambled ahead, several of whom had lingered to also express their admiration to Jon before letting them get on to tend his wound. One of the neighbours to the west of their land had brought along their two young children, a boy and a girl, who were darting in and out of view to play in the forest edging either side of the path. The children had been the last to finally leave Jon's side having exhausted all of their questions, or perhaps because Sherlock had shooed them away. Regardless, Sherlock had had one eye on them and one on Jon as they walked in case they decided to return and pester him. Fortunately, they seemed content gambolling in the path, and it didn't take long before Sherlock felt his adrenaline tapering off from earlier. His mind was racing ahead to ways to tend to Jon and get him settled. Perhaps his mother would ask him to fetch her herbs to make a poultice.

He was just easing into his mental plans when the little girl and her brother disappeared again into the forest. They continued on, Sherlock taking care not to jostle Jon too much, but after a time, Sherlock registered an odd sort of calm when the sounds of their play went suddenly quiet. Apparently, Jon noticed as well and stiffened at his side. Sherlock looked away towards the woods when the sound of a high-pitched scream pierced the unnatural still of the forest, and everyone jolted to a stop. The children's mother and father rushed in, alarmed, and Alcestis moved to block both he and Jon on instinct. Another neighbour, an older man, called after them to see if they needed help. Jon's hand strayed down to the xiphos at his hip while they waited, and soon the father emerged, carrying his son; the mother their daughter. All four faces were pale, and the children were sobbing.

"Someone go and bring back Cleitomachus and Grigórios," the father said, clutching his son close. His face was wan and grim.

Sherlock felt his adrenaline surge again and he slid his arm free of Jon to move past his mother. His curiosity was now peaked and he looked away towards the forest. Alcestis automatically gripped his wrist to stay him.

"What has happened?" she asked the father.

"It is one of the boys from the gymnasium. He is dead."

 

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled a bit with this chapter, but I hope it doesn't come across as so. 
> 
> Also, if anyone is wondering what to expect for the length of this Book, I think there will be about four more chapters. 
> 
> Please adore this scene from TheGayDivorcee of Jon and Morsimus fighting it out, with Cleitomachus and Grigórios in the background. _The detail!!!_
> 
> Thank you to the lovely folks who have left comments. :)


	11. Book I, Chapter xi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first complication.

The body was lying on its stomach with leaves sticking in the hair and clinging to the face.

Jon stared down at the young man with his jaw hanging open. “It is Alcaeus.”

Sherlock nodded and bent down for a closer look. His heart thudded with a strange mixture of emotions, but he could not deny it also thudded with excitement at such a mystery.

“Sherlock,” his mother snapped. “Come away.”

Ignoring her completely, he reached for a leaf clinging near the mouth and brought it up to his nose to sniff.

“Sherlock!” his mother cried. “What are you doing?"

“Looking for evidence.”

“Let Grigórios do that.” She covered her eyes with a hand and heaved a sigh. “That poor boy. Hera bring comfort to his mother.”

“Sherlock,” Jon murmured, crouching down next to him and doing his best to control a wince from pain. “Perhaps you shouldn’t do….”

Sherlock turned his attention to Jon. “Do what?”

Jon's lips thinned and he flicked a gaze towards the body. “This isn’t… it’s not an experiment. He is dead.”

Sherlock sat back on his heels and blanked his expression. He stared at Jon, slightly hurt at his implications no matter how much truth might be in them. The boy had been a budding tyrant and caused no small amount of grief for the both of them. It was unfortunate to find him thusly, but Sherlock would shed no tears for him.

“You think he simply fell over dead right after everyone was dismissed, here, in this forest?”

Jon’s brows furrowed and after a moment he shook his head.

“He was murdered.” Sherlock announced. There were gasps behind them, and Alcestis stepped forward.

“Why would you say that? How can you tell? Perhaps there was an accident.” Her eyes focussed intently on her son.

“Poison,” Jon said. Sherlock turned a startled gaze upon his friend. Jon nodded towards Alcaeus and leaned close to sniff his mouth. “He will need to be examined, but initial viewing suggests poisoning. Most likely.”

Alcestis shifted restlessly in the dry leaves. Her eyes darted back and forth between the boys. “What are your reasonings for saying such a thing?”

“Yes,” said a voice behind them, raised over the sound of footsteps crunching through the fallen detritus on the forest floor. “Did I hear you say poison?” Grigórios came to a stop beside them, staring down at the body of the youth with a deep frown in his tanned face. “Gods above.”

Sherlock stood and immediately launched into his observations. “Jon is correct. Alcaeus is not bleeding and there does not appear to be outward signs of physical assault. The smell of vomit is obvious, and look at his skin.”

Cleitomachus had also arrived and stood closely behind Jon, briefly running his fingers along his arm before moving forward to look at the body. Sherlock frowned at this gesture, but forced himself to push back every other thought or feeling not related to the scene before him. He continued.

“He is pale. His skin waxen. Look at how he perspired. He shows many signs of one who has been poisoned. It was a quick, concentrated toxin, too, as he had not displayed any such ill symptoms at the gymnasium.” He looked to Cleitomachus and clipped, “Did he?”

Cleitomachus gently rolled the boy onto his back. He and Grigórios felt along his skin, searching for any wounds. He shook his head. “He seemed in perfect health, I admit.” Sherlock stepped forward, mind racing.

“Did he say anything? Mention feeling unwell at all?”

Cleitomachus bit his lip in thought and shook his head. “No. He said nothing.”

Jon nodded. “I agree with Sherlock.” Everyone’s eyes fell to him and stood to his full height, biting his lip in pain. “As a student of medicine, I recognise the symptoms of what is commonly produced from a dosing of, say, hemlock or belladonna.” Sherlock’s head snapped up, while Jon cast a sympathetic glance towards his fallen classmate. “He could have ingested something and, were it strong enough, he could have been dead within minutes.”

“Which is precisely the timeframe he would have had,” Sherlock’s lips curved in a faint smile, while his eyes tracked over the body looking for any other information to present itself. Then he noticed his feet.

“And how is it _you_ know so much about it?” asked an older man farther off. He pointed to Jon. “ _He_ is a student of medicine. But you?”

Alcestis narrowed her eyes, while Jon moved carefully to stand between Sherlock and the man. “He has frequently studied the same teachings as I and has a vast knowledge of herbs and toxins besides. I can vouch for that.”

Diodorus also spoke up. "As can I. I am these boys’ tutor. It is true we have had lessons over such topics.”

Sherlock finally tore his gaze away from their former torturer’s feet to blink around at the men assembled. “Where are his sandals?”

Grigórios’ eyes flickered to the young man’s feet and he arched a brow. “He is not wearing any.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Obviously. And why not?"

Cleitomachus shrugged. “Perhaps he did not put them back on.”

Sherlock swallowed back a sarcastic retort and shook his head. “Wrong. They were new.” He turned to Jon. “You saw him wearing them earlier. Strutting about in them. He was feeling particularly smug, he may as well have boasted aloud of his new possessions for all the swaggering he was doing in them.”

“How do you know they were new?”

“Can you not tell new sandals when you see them? Besides, his previous pair was in a sorry state. He was obviously gifted them upon completion of this course—"

“Here,” the same older man shook his finger at Sherlock. “How is it that you know so much about this, mm? Seems suspicious if you ask me.”

Alcestis swept forward, eyes blazing, and wrapped fingers around her son’s arm to pull him close. “Nonsense. He was with me the whole time. You should think before you start accusing others who are trying to lend assistance.” To Sherlock, she leaned in and whispered. “Enough of this now. You are doing yourself no favours.”

She reached out to Jon as well. “We are going home. Let these men deal with this tragedy.”

Jon looked to Sherlock, who pulled himself free from his mother’s grip. “But, his sandals. Where are they? Who took them?”

“That is enough,” Alcestis hissed.

Grigórios eyed Sherlock speculatively and then the boy’s bare feet.

“Find his sandals. Or better yet, let _me_ find them. I’m sure I can find his killer.”

“Sherlock,” Jon said.

Cleitomachus rose and shook his head with a heavy sigh. “Thank you for your advice about the poison. But we shall take care of this.” He directed a softer gaze to Jon. “Jon, perhaps you should take your friend home. He is obviously upset.”

Sherlock scoffed and Jon placed a hand upon his chest.

“Come on, Sherlock.”

He twisted around to face him, eyes wide. “But, there is more here to be learned. We cannot leave now, they’ll miss everything!”

“Sherlock, I said _come_ ,” his mother commanded. Her tone brooked no argument and Sherlock growled, casting one more eye over the body, and then stomped away through the brush towards the forest path.

He heard his relations follow after and the raised voice of Grigórios calling for everyone else to move along as well. It took a moment for him to recall Jon's injury, and when he did he paused to let him catch up before taking his place back at his side. He slid an arm around Jon's waist, displacing his mother.

“What was that? What happened?” Jon whispered.

Sherlock tossed a glance over his shoulder. His mother’s hawkish gaze was focussed on him, and he shook his head. “Later," he murmured. "When we are alone.”

Jon nodded and said nothing further, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts.

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

Jon was propped up against many fluffed, feather pillows with a tightly wrapped cloth covering a honey poultice over his hip. Sherlock stood to one side of the bed, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His attention was divided, his mind split between mulling over the incident of Alcaeus' death, and, as ever, Jon.

Alcestis gathered her supplies and brushed a hand over Jon's golden hair. She sighed deeply and directed her gaze to Sherlock. "I am sorry for snapping earlier, but you know that was not the time nor the place to say such things."

Sherlock inhaled to reply, but his mother cut him off.

"No. I know. I know how your mind works, and I know that even now you are close to slipping out of this house to snoop for more information. Which, I forbid."

Sherlock snapped his jaw closed and crossed his arms in a sulk.

"I watched one of you get sliced by a sword, and I nearly watched a mob get itself worked up to accuse another of murder. I have reached my limit for being able to handle any further theatrics today. Do you understand?" She stood, and Sherlock finally noticed the drawn expression on her weary face. She had been frightened today.

He sighed and nodded in acquiescence. For now, he would wait before haring off to investigate and spare her the grief. Anyway, he needed to look after Jon and make sure he would be able to rest. To be honest, he probably needed that more for his own peace of mind than he even realised.

"I understand," he said.

Alcestis inhaled and breathed out with a nod. "Good. Thank you." She turned to Jon, "Do you need anything else? The willow tea will help with any lingering pain soon, but I can find something stronger."

He smiled softly up at her and shook his head. "You've done more than enough."

She lifted her sack of herbs, and cradled a mortar and pestle in her free arm. "I will have your dinner brought in. Sherlock, am I to assume you will take yours in here, as well?"

Sherlock nodded. Alcestis grinned. "Of course. Shall I prepare candles for your inevitable midnight vigil?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and smirked. The same pale blue eyes glinted mischievously back at him, and she shook her head. "I will be back soon," she said, and quietly swept away.

Sherlock sidled over to the bed and carefully sat down upon the edge. "Some days I think that woman knows us too well." He'd said it lightly, but as the thought turned over again in his mind his smile faded. "Might not always be a good thing...."

Jon worried his lower lip in contemplation. "Some days I think she suspects."

Sherlock snapped his attention to Jon. "Suspects what?"

Jon shrugged and frowned down at his hip. "You know. That we're..." he swallowed and Sherlock watched as his tan cheeks tinted faintly with pink. Jon's hand gestured back and forth between him but kept his gaze averted. "That we're... close. Well, closer than most, um, friends?"

Sherlock felt a smile slowly curve his lips and he leaned back against the wall behind him. "' _Closer than most friends.'_ Is that what we are?"

Jon turned a red face to him. "Well, are we not?"

Sherlock shuffled closer to Jon so that his side was pressed up against him. "Hmm, that depends. Do you go around kissing your other friends?"

Jon arched a brow. "If I did I would not tell."

Sherlock's own brows rose to his hairline. "Oh?" He leaned away, but Jon flung out a hand to his elbow to stay him, smiling. Sherlock pulled again. "No, please, if I am merely someone _else_ for you to kiss then–" his words were halted by Jon's fingers on his lips. Jon leaned in close and pecked a sweet kiss on his shoulder, resting his cheek there after.

"I'm teasing. You know better than to think I would sport with others." Sherlock relaxed beside him. Jon playfully rubbed his chin against his shoulder. "But honestly, I would not tell you otherwise."

Sherlock groaned and gently shoved Jon aside, who laughed and elbowed him back. He then grunted at the movement and threw a disgusted look at his hip. Sherlock leaned up and peered over to the dressing.

"I thought you said it was merely a scratch?"

Jon rubbed at it lightly. "It is. But for such a little thing it's quite tender."

"Is it worse than the time you caught your calf on a nail when we slid down the roof of father's barn after the owl?"

Jon winced and and shook his head. "No. _That_ hurt."

Sherlock chuckled, and both boys looked up as his mother and a servant girl brought in a tray laden with steaming bowls of soups, breads, and what smelled like herbed lamb.

"Diodorus and I shall dine in the serving room, but we had hoped to toast you, Jon." She filled two mottled glasses with a rich, red wine, and handed one to each. She poured out another glass for herself and held it aloft. "To Apollo and to Jon. Long may you be blessed with fortune, protection, and wisdom."

The three raised their cups and sipped. Jon winced at the skin as it was pulled at his hip. Alcestis set her glass down and crouched to inspect the wound.

"Does it trouble you? Did you drink all of your tea?"

Jon sighed and nodded gratefully when she took his glass so he could lie back. "Are you hungry? Do you need help to eat?"

Jon took up her hands within his and kissed her knuckles. "You mustn't fret like this. I will be fine. Really."

He smiled up at her and Sherlock's heart pulsed with fondness as it often did when he watched the two together. He had his own special sort of relationship with his mother, as did Mycroft, but neither he nor his brother were as overly demonstrative with their affections. Jon being Sherlock's exception. No doubt Jon was a blessing to his mother in that regard. She had long ago learned to school the need to cuddle her biological children, but she never held back with Jon. Some children could grow jealous of such a relationship, but Sherlock had never seen it as a competition. He had never felt threatened. Jon had just always fit.

"I will help him, mother, if he needs it," Sherlock offered.

She looked up to him and could not resist cupping his cheek. "You two take such good care of the other. Soon, you will not need me at all," she sighed.

Sherlock leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Untrue," he murmured.

She arched a brow, then reached for her glass and rose, casting a critical eye over the pair of them. "I will check on you again before I sleep."

She gathered her glass and let her fingers linger over the wine vessel. "Perhaps I'll leave this behind," she said with a grin. "The wine will help you relax." She paused at the threshold. "Help him, Sherlock, but then let him rest. Do not keep him up late."

Jon groaned from his bed. "Honestly, I feel fine."

She turned a razor sharp smile on him. "Well, then humour _me_."

He smiled and nodded. "Of course."

Alcestis and the servant girl left, and Sherlock set about arranging their meal. He settled the tray on the bed between them and began breaking the bread into pieces, cutting off bits of lamb. They ate companionably, but midway through Jon grumbled and sat back to close his eyes. Sherlock wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"All right?"

"My stomach is a bit..." Jon wavered his fingers.

Sherlock reached over him for his wine glass, then offered it to Jon. "Drink this. Perhaps it will help your nerves."

Jon snorted softly. "My nerves. Since when have I ever had problems with my nerves?"

"Well, when were you last cut by a blade?"

Jon cracked open one eye. "I feel certain you've inflicted worse on me throughout the years."

Sherlock frowned. "Not with _intent_ , though."

Jon forced a smile and hissed out a breath. He carefully rested his palm over the wound on his side. "It hurts worse. How is that possible?"

A prickle of worry spread along Sherlock's neck, and he lifted the tray and set it aside. He then moved around to the other side of the bed and crouched low to gently feel along his hip. Jon slapped his fingers away.

Sherlock stood and looked down at Jon. Jon shifted and tilted his head up to watch him back.

"What can I do?" he murmured.

Jon smiled. "Oh, don't mind me. I'm just complaining. I really am fine."

Sherlock felt his own stomach twist a bit. "But you could have not been. Very easily."

"Morsimus is a fool. That was not meant to happen."

"It was also not an accident." Sherlock shuffled on his feet and bit his lip. Emotions from earlier, the riotous ones he'd pushed to the side, began to surface again. Jon must have seen something alarming, for he dropped his smile and patted the bed beside him.

"Come here."

Sherlock wasted no time in complying and he carefully fitted himself alongside his friend. He wrapped a long arm around his waist, careful not to rub against his hip. Sherlock pressed his face against Jon's throat and inhaled the comforting scent of Jon. Mixed with this was also sweat, and earth, and a sharp tang from his earlier fear that was foreign on his skin.

Jon ran one hand along Sherlock's arm and nuzzled the side of his face against Sherlock's curls. "I'm sorry if you were frightened," he whispered.

Sherlock ran his lips over the dip above his collarbone. "I was. I thought... for a moment, all I saw was blood, and I thought–"

"But he didn't."

"This time." Sherlock pressed his lips to Jon's neck, revelling in the feel of his solid warmth against him. He slid his hand down Jon's bare stomach to gently rest atop the bandage covering his wound. "I will run him through if he ever comes near you with anything other than an apology upon his lips."

Jon huffed and ducked his chin to kiss Sherlock's temple. Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Who do you think killed him?"

Sherlock nestled his head onto Jon's shoulder. "I have a couple of thoughts."

"Only a couple?" Jon asked with a smile in his voice.

"Only theories. We need to look at the body again."

Jon trailed his fingers lazily over Sherlock's side. "You told your mother you wouldn't."

"I meant I wouldn't _tonight_."

Jon snorted. "They will lay the body out for visitors in a few days, and then we can–"

"No. That will be too long. They'll have washed away any remaining clues as to who might have done it." He tilted his head up to look into Jon's eyes. "Well spotted with the belladonna. When Morsimus was here he brought me a branch of belladonna. As a gift, he'd said."

Jon's stomach muscles tensed as he tried to sit up a bit. "Morsimus brought you _belladonna_? Sherlock. Do you think he poisoned Alcaeus?"

"It is possible, but we mustn't twist facts to suit theories."

"But he and Alcaeus were at odds. Alcaeus had even pushed him."

"Yes. He does seem likely, but we should study the evidence before we make further assumptions." Sherlock absently rubbed his chin along Jon's chest while thinking. "I wonder if we could even speak with Morsimus. And Sebastos. General enquiry, of course. We'd not let on too much...."

"That is dangerous." Jon's hand came up to twine through Sherlock's curls. "Do not go alone. Take me with you. I don't trust either of them."

Sherlock hummed. "You _are_ perceptive." He grinned and daringly nuzzled the nipple now peaking under his attentions. "And, you noticed poisoning straight away. I suppose you're not _only_ brawn after all."

Jon's face crinkled from pleasure into a pout. "What is this? My father was a celebrated philosopher, and I was reading scrolls _long_ before we ever even _moved_ here– "

His words were cut off by Sherlock's mouth, which smiled into the kiss. He snaked his tongue out to run against Jon's lips, and Jon opened to allow him entrance. Jon's mouth was hot and wet, and his tongue curled around Sherlock's, and when he inhaled he stole the breath from Sherlock's lungs. It was an odd sensation but intriguing. As if Jon were breathing the life from Sherlock's chest into his. Sherlock shivered and made a soft sound at the back of his throat, his body going lax with pleasure.

"You are," Jon murmured between kisses, "a horrible tease."

Jon tightened his arm around Sherlock's waist, pulling him in closer, and Sherlock twisted to press his chest against Jon's. His chiton bunched up between them, and he sighed as the warmth of Jon seeped in through his skin. Jon was so very warm. And strong. He tasted of lamb and wine, and he needed to be closer. Sherlock's fuzzy brain told him to lean in more, pressing Jon farther back into the pillows, and he raised one leg to slide over Jon's hips to bring them flush against the other. To line their torsos up completely and press their hips together. Jon slid his hands to Sherlock's waist and rocked up into him then, and Sherlock's body sparked at the feel. Sherlock gripped him with his knees, bracketing Jon's body with his legs. Jon groaned and then jerked his head aside with a hiss, wincing down at the pain lancing through his side from Sherlock's knee. Immediately, Sherlock scrambled off of him with an apology, and bent low to check the wound. He blinked away the heavy thickness of arousal and shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he panted, "I was not thinking, are you all right?"

Jon laid a protective hand over his hip and forced a tight smile. "It's fine. You didn't mean to."

Sherlock moved in close and pressed a gentle, barely-there kiss on the skin above the cloth wound around him, then pressed his face into Jon's firm stomach. He draped an arm over his thighs and shuffled down until he was laying alongside Jon's legs. "I'm sorry," he whispered again, nuzzling his thigh.

Jon reached down and carded his other hand through Sherlock's curls. "Shh. Let's rest." He sighed and nestled down into the pillows. Sherlock pulled the thin cotton sheet up to Jon's chest and poked his head around the edge. "I suspect you will wake me soon enough to follow after you in the morning."

Sherlock grinned and nodded, mind already skipping ahead to the tasks he was preparing for tomorrow. Jon's fingers in his hair made it rather difficult to concentrate though, and he found himself yawning and leaning into the soothing touch. He turned his face into the heated skin beneath his cheek and kissed it.

"I'm glad Morsimus didn't kill you."

Jon's body shook with quiet laughter beside him. "As am I."

Sherlock rubbed his jaw against his muscled thigh, and reached up to pet at Jon's good side. His fingers idly tapped along his ribs and the dips between his obliques. "There would have been two bodies tonight, instead of one."

Jon stilled above him. "You mean three."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Perhaps."

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

Sherlock woke because he was swelteringly hot under their sheet.

With a groan, he roughly shoved it aside and took a deep breath of the cool air that was filtering in through the open window. Eyes closed, his brow furrowed while his sleepy brain tried to reason as to why that was wrong. If the air was cool, why then was the bed hot?

He then registered the sound of Jon's heavy breathing.

Sherlock's body jolted awake, and he twisted up on his forearms from where he'd laid to sleep with his face near Jon's ribs. Jon's mouth was partly open, and even in the moonlight his skin looked pale. His chest was rising and falling more rapidly than it should have in normal slumber. Sherlock raised a hand over his friend's face and felt heat rolling off in waves. He pressed it to Jon's forehead and it came away damp and hot.

"Fever," he mumbled, voice hoarse from sleep. He wriggled back and leaned in to examine Jon's hip. Very lightly he touched it, feeling the skin pulsing hot and Jon moaned piteously, jerking away from the touch. Something was wrong.

He scrambled to sit up and cradled Jon's face in his hands. "Jon. Jon, wake up."

Jon's eyes pinched shut and he tossed his head.

Sherlock quickly climbed out of bed and stumbled through the darkness towards his parents' sleeping chamber. His hands felt along the smooth walls lining the corridors of the house, and when he reached their door he rapped twice. Not waiting for a response, and knowing his father still wasn't home, he slipped inside and heard his mother's sheets rustling in the dark.

"What is it?" she groused.

He reached her bed and bent to tug on her arm. "Jon. He isn't well. Come quickly."

Again, Sherlock did not wait for his mother to follow, but set back off towards Jon's room. He fumbled for the flint on his bedside table, and struck it until the oil lamp caught. Carefully, he raised it over Jon's pallid face and saw beads of perspiration dotted along his brow and lip. His mother followed shortly with a jug of water in her hands.

"Move aside," she murmured, sitting beside Jon and pouring water into the bowl on his table. She dipped a clean rag into it and wrung it out, then turned back to Jon and pressed her hand to his forehead and tsked. Gently, she dabbed the damp cloth over his face, blowing air across the wet skin. "Bring the light to his hip."

Sherlock obeyed, and he watched as she carefully peeled away the bandage with the gentle fingers of a mother, and they both winced at the red streaks fanning out from the incision.

"No, Aceso, why?" she gasped. "How can it be so infected?" She whipped her gaze around to Sherlock, who stood with his jaw gaping open. "How long has he been like this?"

Sherlock shook his head, feeling his heart pound in his veins. "I... I only noticed how hot he was just before I fetched you. He complained of pain a bit before he fell asleep, but he slept quickly and gently." He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling guilt creep along his spine. "I must have fallen asleep. I hadn't meant to do so..."

Alcestis tore the rag in half, dipped each bit in water, and draped one again over his forehead, and one over his hip. Her fingers grazed his throat, and she gently felt for the pulse there. "His heart is racing..." She looked up to Sherlock. "Go to the servants quarters and wake Laodice. Then go into the kitchen and stoke the fire to boil the pot of water over the hearth. Go."

Sherlock rushed to do as he was told, going straight to the women's servants quarters. His family did not have very many servants, but there were enough to keep them sleeping separately. He entered quietly and struggled as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the windowless space. The older woman occupied one quarter of the room, and Sherlock went to her, and gently shook her awake. She startled, but was shushed with a murmur of his name, and instructed to go to Jon at his mother's behest. She nodded, and he slipped back out of the room and towards the kitchen.

There was always a large, iron pot that hung on a sway inside the hearth that was kept warm for quick usage throughout the day. At night, when the fire was banked, the coals were the only thing keeping it warm. However, warm or not, it would take ages to boil. Sherlock quickly looked around and rifled through the stacks of bowls and pots around their kitchen, until he found one he could hang. He filled it from the large cauldron and threw tinder down onto the embers. Dropping to his knees, he breathed over the coals, fanning it to life, and finally placed the already warm water over the flames to boil. All that was left to do was wait. Which was intolerable. Jon was suffering while he was waiting for water to boil.

He groaned and was just starting to go back and check on Jon when Laodice entered, sleepy and harried. "Fetch your mother's mortar and pestle," she commanded and then disappeared into the pantry.

Thankful to be occupied, he went straight to it and set it out upon a table. She returned carrying a pot of honey and two bricks of charcoal, and set to grinding it up. Sherlock watched, shifting anxiously on his feet as the bricks were pummelled into dust and then mixed with honey. Her kind, warm eyes peered up at him in the lamplight and she offered a soft smile.

"It is a newly caught infection. Jon is strong. He will be all right, I'm sure of it."

Sherlock nodded. "But it developed so quickly. You're certain it is infection?"

The old woman hummed. "It is an odd one, I grant. But the boiling water and charcoal will help draw it out soon enough."

When she finished, she carried the strong poultice with her, and Sherlock followed shortly with the pot of boiling water. Alcestis was stirring the charcoal mixture, and gestured for Sherlock to set the water down. She dipped a fresh cloth into it, wincing at the sting against her hands and let it cool for a moment. She turned to Sherlock.

"He has been babbling nonsense." She sighed and nodded towards his chest. "Hold him down."

Sherlock swallowed, but moved around the bed and braced his hands on Jon's shoulders. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Alcestis lay the steaming cloths atop the wound, and Sherlock braced as Jon cried out and thrashed beneath him.

"Get his legs," Alcestis ground out to Laodice, who sung sweet prayers and gripped Jon's ankles.

"Be still, Jon," Sherlock murmured into his ear, and Jon lay back, panting and gritting his teeth.

"Wha's happening," he mumbled. His glassy eyes rolled around before finally settling on Sherlock's face. He cried out again as Alcestis replaced the cooled strips with hot ones. Sherlock's eyes prickled with unshed tears to see Jon in such a state.

"Fever," Sherlock said. He brought one hand up to brush away the sweat-damp fringe clinging to his forehead. "The cut is... something is wrong."

Jon nodded and winced as more heat was seared into his skin and started trembling. "I don' feel well," he whispered and lie back with another violent tremor. He tried to jerk back and free himself, his eyes were wide and wild, tracking back and forth in each direction. "The walls are bleeding, Sh'lock..." he moaned, teeth chattering with shivers.

"Chills?" Laodice asked. She cocked her head. "Is he cold?"

Alcestis reached up and cupped the side of Jon's face, then his forehead. "He is blazing hot."

"Jon," Sherlock said, turning the boy's face so that he was looking at him, "Jon? Are you cold?"

Jon continued to shiver and tremble, but he managed to shake his head.

"No," Sherlock said. "He trembles but is not cold..." a wicked suspicion creeped into his mind and he gasped. "Bring the lamp up close," he said. His mother fetched it while Sherlock gently pried an eyelid open. "Jon, look at me."

Jon's eye slowly focussed towards the sound of his voice, and Alcestis brought the lamp near. His pupil remained wide and open.

"They are dilated..." she murmured. "Why would they be dilated if he has an infection?"

Sherlock checked his other eye and his breath left in a rush. "Because he does not have an infection. He's reacting to a toxin."

Laodice gasped and Alcestis' mouth dropped open. "When was he poisoned? Did either of you eat or drink anything–"

"The blade. The blade he was cut with was poisoned." Something dark and heavy settled in Sherlock's gut and fury slowly bubbled up until Sherlock wanted to rip something apart. Specifically Morsimus. "Morsimus' blade tip was poisoned. When he sliced Jon it entered through the blood. It wasn't enough to kill him, but it _is_ enough to make him sick."

"A poisoned blade... by Zeus, would he _do_ such a thing?"

"Charcoal and honey on his wound will not draw a poison that has worked into his body for this long," said Laodice.

Alcestis inhaled and nodded. "No." She removed the hot strips of fabric and rubbed at her temples. "What was he poisoned with?" Her eyes widened. "The boy that died. You said, you and Jon both said he'd been poisoned." Her gaze hardened. " _What_ is going on?"

"I don't know yet, but we must help Jon first."

"What was his poison?" Laodice asked again.

Beneath their hands, Jon's body convulsed and he moaned. His hands moved to cradle his stomach, and Sherlock slid his down to cover them.

"I suspect belladonna," Sherlock said.

Alcestis' shoulders sagged. Jon groaned again and mumbled Sherlock's name. He bent low to nuzzle his forehead against Jon's. "I'm here. Hang on, Jon."

"Water first," his mother said. "We need to flush his body as much as we can, and then valerian. We will sedate him and he will have to sleep through it." She turned to Laodice. "There is a tincture sealed with blue wax on the shelf next to the others."

Laodice nodded and left swiftly. Alcestis dabbed a cooler cloth over Jon's damp brow. "There, there, my son. You'll be all right, soon." She kissed his temple and lay a hand over Sherlock's where it rested atop Jon's.

"That boy, Morsimus," his mother added. Sherlock's eyes flew to hers at the sound of steel in her tone. "Is he behind all of this?"

Sherlock met her gaze for a long moment before returning it to Jon. "I'm not certain, but if I had to guess without all the facts, it would seem likely. If we were to check Alcaeus' eyes his pupils would look very similar."

"And tonight, you were going to try to find out, weren't you?" Sherlock kept his gaze on Jon's gasping lips and nodded. Alcestis huffed a breath through her nose. "And if he'd gone with you, you both would be out there with him sick." She sighed loudly and shook her head. "Atropos, remove your fingers from Jon's thread, I pray," she said, invoking the Fate.

Sherlock swallowed and gripped Jon's hands. He thanked the gods that he had actually obeyed his mother that night. He would not have known what to do help Jon. In theory he should have, but now that something had happened to _Jon_ , it was as if Sherlock's knowledge flew away when his panic grew. In the end, his wretched brain had finally reminded him to check for other symptoms of a poisoning, but it hadn't been fast enough. And even still, all they could do was try to calm him while his body fought the intrusion. He clenched his jaw and stifled another growl of irritation.

"I am of two minds," she continued with a whisper. Sherlock looked up. "On the one hand, I am grateful you heeded my words earlier. On the other," at this she met her son's gaze. "You must report this and make him pay."

Sherlock held her dark gaze. "Of that you can be certain, mother."

Laodice returned bearing a cup and the tincture, and Sherlock settled in behind Jon to ease him into a sitting position. He slipped his arms around Jon's stomach and rested his chin over his shoulder, murmuring soothing words into his ear. His mother and Laodice fed Jon several cups of water before the tincture. Next, they each rubbed Jon's twitching muscles until his body finally calmed enough for him to fall back into an ill sleep. When he had somewhat settled Laodice patted his cheek fondly and then retired to her own room for rest.

Alcestis dragged a chair close to Jon's bed. "You may as well go to sleep. I will watch over Jon tonight."

Sherlock, who had stationed himself against Jon's side, ceased rubbing his fingers along his arm but did not otherwise move. His jaw worked as he thought of words to argue against this. The very idea of leaving Jon's side at that moment was abhorrent.

Seeing his hesitation, Alcestis added, "If the belladonna has not already killed him by now he will survive. He'll feel worse for wear come morning, but he _will_ be fine."

But what if he woke in the night and Sherlock was not there when he'd been asking for him? That would not do at all. Jon's voice, when he had been calling for him earlier, had made his heart ache. Made his stomach clench.

"I... I would prefer to stay as well." He ducked his head and felt his cheeks warm under his mother's sharp gaze.

In the dark, Alcestis stared down at her son for several heartbeats. She moved towards him and lay a hand on his shoulder. "Your father would tell me that you are too old to sleep in his bed." Sherlock tensed beneath her touch. "However," she added, "that does not currently seem to stop either of you." Sherlock's breath froze in his chest until she bent down and kissed the top of his head. "You may stay." She eased her fingers beneath his jaw and tilted his head up. "But do not disturb his rest, young man."

Sherlock nodded eagerly. "Of course not. I will be silent as a mouse," he said with an innocent smile.

She shook her head fondly. "I'm sure." Her eyes softened. "Are you all right? You did very well tonight, my love."

Sherlock butted his head against her hand before carefully lying back, making sure to put space between he and Jon. Alcestis returned to her chair and settled in, draping a thin, woollen blanket over her lap. She set the oil lamp onto the ground behind the table to dim the light enough so as not to be distracting.

"I was afraid," Sherlock whispered into the dark once she had stilled. He tangled his fingers with Jon's, needing the connection and desperately wishing he could hold him close. Jon weakly gripped them back in his sleep. "I didn't know what to do. I should have, but I didn't."

His mother hummed sleepily. "You will find that happens often in life. But you will learn."

Sherlock closed his eyes, unspeakably grateful for his mother.

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to all the kind souls leaving lovely comments. :)


	12. Book I, Chapter xii

Sherlock woke to fingers in his hair and his nose tucked behind Jon's ear. In his sleep he had shifted towards Jon, as he always did, and had one arm thrown across his chest. Jon mumbled something about lambs, and Sherlock grinned, rubbing his face into the warmth of his neck. The room was quiet, save for the sounds of his hair scraping against his pillow, the rhythmic puffs of his and Jon's breath, and there was also a rustle of cloth across the room.

He froze. His brain struggled to rouse as images from last night's horrific ordeal caught up to him... along with the remembrance that his mother had slept in the room with them. His heart kicked against his ribs, and Sherlock forced his breaths to remain even. Perhaps she was not yet awake.

"Good morning," his mother murmured calmly from her chair. Sherlock swallowed and slowly let his eyes flutter open. The sun had risen, but it was still early enough that the room was only partially flooded with weak morning light. Sherlock swallowed again, afraid that if he tried to speak his voice would crack. And anyway, what would he say?

Pale blue eyes met their likeness, and Alcestis regarded him silently from across the room. Sherlock made no move to slide his arm away, but he did angle his face out from Jon's neck and let his head rest back on the arm Jon had slid under his head in the night.

Her expression was one of those odd, neutral things that Sherlock always, always had a hard time reading. Her eyes darted once to Jon's sleeping face, and back to Sherlock. Her lips pursed just the tiniest amount, and Sherlock could slowly feel his cheeks heat with a flush. She had to know. She knew. Did she know? What was she going to tell father? Would she even _say_ anything?

Alcestis stretched then, rolling her head with a slight wince. She carefully folded the blanket she'd used in the night, and took two steps towards the bed to silently feel Jon's forehead. She nodded to herself and met Sherlock's gaze once more. They stared at each other silently for a moment longer, then her eyes softened and she turned away. At the threshold she quietly called over her shoulder. "Your father will be home today." And then she left.

Sherlock lay against Jon, his lips popped open and he exhaled in a rush. His fingers curled around Jon's ribs, and he nestled close for one quick squeeze before pulling back and stretching away his own kinks. He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes until spots danced like dark stars and contemplated his mother. She'd said nothing. Or, perhaps she'd said a lot. Either way, he should take care to school his affections around Jon for a while. He scowled at the idea. It was hateful. A significant part of Sherlock yearned to tell his mother about... how he felt. Another significant part was terrified. But, he reasoned, surely, if they told her she would understand. She and father. Wouldn't they? It wasn't uncommon for young men to be... close. Closer than friends. To explore physical and emotional pleasures with each other. So what if they'd grown up together? It wasn't as if they were blood....

Jon groaned beside him and Sherlock sat up and ran a gentle hand across Jon's cheek.

"Good morning," he whispered into Jon's ear, giving it a little peck. Jon groaned again in response.

Sherlock's fingers trailed up and over Jon's chest, down his arms. They curled around the wrist Jon lay across his stomach. "How are you feeling?"

Jon snuffled and turned his face into Sherlock's side. "As if horses have trampled me."

Sherlock smiled softly down at him. He bent low and lightly kissed Jon's lips. "You scared us quite a bit last night."

Jon's eyes opened and he winced at the light. His other hand quickly shielded them. "Too bright," he mumbled.

Sherlock hummed and lay back down beside him with his head on Jon's chest; just for a moment. Beneath his ear a heart beat steadily, and Sherlock closed his eyes and listened.

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

It was mid-afternoon before Jon was well enough to be left alone to sleep without constant supervision. Sherlock was more than ready to begin. His skin was positively itching with the need for revenge. Or justice. Or information, anything.

He tied the laces of his sturdiest sandals and slipped a rucksack over his back. His eyes trailed along his desk in case there was anything he might need, but he would hopefully not be gone too long. As quietly as he could, he crept through the house. Briefly, he saw that there were several servants in the kitchen preparing for a larger than normal feast for their father's return. Sherlock arched a brow at this, but otherwise continued.

Once outside, he spared a moment's regret that he hadn't told Jon where he was going, and he would be furious if he found out. Regardless, he set a fast pace towards the clearing where Alcaeus had been found. When he arrived, he frowned at all the evidence of numerous people's feet trampling the area, but there was nothing that could be done about it, so he simply moved carefully. He put his nose to the ground and sniffed until he found the lingering scent of where Alcaeus had emptied his stomach. His fingers sifted through leaves, dirt, and myriad detritus of the forest, hoping to find belladonna berries. After several minutes of searching he still had not turned up a single one. This, of course, supported Sherlock's suspicions that he had to have drunk something, because the lack of identifiable stomach contents showed he previously hadn't eaten much of anything. Therefore, the poison would've been in liquid form from, say, the juice of several berries. Or perhaps an extract from the boiling of roots and leaves. All of which were easily concealed in any other unsuspecting liquid. Like water or wine.

Sherlock sat back on his heels. He would need to acquire the drinking skein Alcaeus had used. Sherlock pursed his lips. Or Sebastos and Morsimus' skeins.

Sherlock dusted off his knees and arranged the pack at his back. He really ought to have a word with them.

 

 

An hour later, Sherlock wiped the sweat off his brow from a hot sun, and knocked upon the door of Sebastos' family home. A young man answered and Sherlock asked to be shown to Sebastos. The servant, a slave, nodded with a bow, and led Sherlock through the entrance and down a hall. Sherlock's eyes quickly scanned the building as they walked, noting with a small amount of smug satisfaction that his family's home was larger and more finely appointed. He passed an airy room, the andron, where two men were lounging and talking quietly, but the servant did not stop.

They rounded a corner, and the servant indicated Sherlock wait, and he knocked upon a door before entering. At the threshold, the man paused a moment before turning back to Sherlock.

"He does not appear to be in his room. Would you mind waiting in the andron while I go and fetch him, sir?"

Sherlock plastered a charming smile on his lips and and gestured towards the room. "I don't mind waiting here for him. We are friends from the gymnasium. I wouldn't want to be a bother."

The slave looked from the bedroom to Sherlock, appearing torn.

Sherlock took another step closer to the room. "Please, do not let me keep you."

The slave noted the golden fibula at his shoulder and reluctantly nodded. "Very well. I will be as quick as I can."

The slave scurried off and Sherlock turned to enter Sebastos' room. It wasn't overly large, but it was just as brightly tiled and painted as what Mycroft had done to his. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the ostentation and got to work searching.

To his consternation, the murals in the room only added to the chaos scattered throughout. Leather thongs and training paraphernalia were littered across the floors. A few shields and swords were tacked to one wall. Sherlock grimaced and pushed aside a pile of soiled tunics but then stilled as his eyes alighted on a half-buried wine skein.

He crouched down and hastily pulled his rucksack off his shoulder and loosened the ties. He grabbed the skein and stuffed it into his rucksack just as the sound of footsteps were heard coming down the hall. Sherlock stood and slung his pack back around his shoulders. He remembered to kick the folds of cloth back into place and affected a look of boredom just as the door swung open. Sebastos entered and eyed Sherlock warily.

"Sherlock. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I simply wanted to call on you." His eyes met Sebastos'. "What with your... friend Alcaeus' death. I imagined you were distressed."

Sebastos' face betrayed no emotion one way or the other. "Distressed?" The youth sauntered across his room and leaned a hip against the wooden frame of his bed. "You seem to be misinformed. We were not close."

Sherlock arched a brow. "Were you not? I was under the impression that he was quite fond of you."

Sebastos grunted and rolled his hazel eyes. "He was like a dog trailing after its master. I was not interested."

"Ah yes. You and Morsimus are the close ones." Sherlock watched as the boy flinched and dropped his gaze to the floor. Sherlock clasped his hands before him. "I was going to visit him as well. You were all technically brothers in arms."

Sebastos looked back to Sherlock with a bitter glare. "You will not be able to do so. He has left."

Surprise and irritation flared through Sherlock and he frowned. "Left? Where?"

Sebastos rose to his full height and used his slightly taller advantage to look down his nose at Sherlock. "What do you care?"

Sherlock held his position and met his dark eyed glare. "Merely curious. How odd that he would disappear after such a trauma, don't you think?"

Sebastos took a threatening step forward. "You know what else I find odd? Your sudden interest." The taller youth moved into Sherlock's personal space and smirked maliciously. "I was not given to think you bothered with anyone who wasn't your precious little golden boy."

Sherlock inhaled calmly and forced himself to not react.

Sebastos cracked the knuckles of one hand at his hip. "You ought to keep your thoughts to yourself, Sherlock." His eyes flicked to his lips. "And keep that pretty mouth closed. I promise you this is nothing you want to tangle with."

Sherlock pressed forward, narrowing his eyes. "And what would I be _tangling_ with, hmm?"

The boy grinned then. "How is Jon?"

Sherlock saw red and his fists balled at his sides.

Sebastos turned and circled back behind Sherlock. "I do hope that little jab to the hip wasn't too debilitating."

Sherlock focussed on breathing and trying to ignore the rushing between his ears.

"No adverse reactions," the taller boy continued. He had moved towards his bedroom door and opened it with one hand. "You should go back to him. Make sure he stays out of trouble." He narrowed his eyes. "Advice worth keeping, yourself."

There was an instinct warring within Sherlock between wanting to launch himself at Sebastos with fists flying and/or outright demand he tell him whether he or Morsimus, or both, killed their peer. Sebastos did not strike him as the type to get away with such plotting, but he certainly would protect the one who did. Sherlock took a breath and moved towards the open door. When he reached the door he stopped.

"And which is the dog and the master between you and Morsimus?"

Sebastos sneered as he walked away. "Keep your nose to the ground, Sherlock." He turned and threw a furious glare at him. "If you value what is dear to you."

Sherlock nearly growled. "Is that a threat?"

Sebastos tossed that insufferable smirk at him once more, and then shoved the door closed in Sherlock's face.

Sherlock stood rigidly staring at the thick wooden planks that separated them as anger coursed bitterly through his veins. He abruptly turned and fled as quickly as was decent from the villa, ignoring the curious stares of the slaves working in the courtyard. He knew roughly where Morsimus' family lived, but Sebastos would not lie about him having left. If anything, he seemed rather annoyed about it. Sherlock growled and turned in the direction of home.

The day was getting on and Jon would be angry enough when he woke and found him gone. He would return home and check the skein he'd managed to pilfer. If there were any traces left of the poison, perhaps he could take his findings to Grigórios. It ought to be enough to at least get a conviction or warrant a trial. He could not be sure the same toxins were used on the blade that pierced Jon, but the coincidence was too extreme for the two events to be unrelated.

 

 

The sun was edging lower in the sky, not yet quite low enough to coax the lovelier hues from the clouds. Sherlock had taken a detour on his way home to search out a flowering belladonna plant to trim a few cuttings from for his impending experiment. He also took a bit to forage for a stalk of hemlock for comparison. By the time he was halfway up the slope leading to his family's villa, he noticed a figure limping under his open window. Sherlock squinted his eyes and decided it looked a bit like Jon. Which was ridiculous. Jon should not be out of bed.

He quickened his steps, and when he was close enough, called and waved to signal his return. The figure turned, and Sherlock's eyes widened to see that it _was_ Jon. He gave a start of alarm as Jon rushed, awkward and fumbling, towards him. Sherlock dropped his pack and hurried to meet him.

"What are you doing?" he yelled, slightly furious. Jon's breathing was laboured, and his face was red and twisted with a scowl to match his own.

"What am _I_ doing?" Jon panted. His hands reached for Sherlock, and the boy braced as his friend all but collapsed against him. Worry clutched at his chest and he tugged Jon close, tilting his face up to peer into his glassy eyes.

"Where," Jon breathed, "have you been?! We have been worried _sick_!" Jon weakly shoved at him, but stumbled again, and Sherlock gripped his forearms. Jon continued to glare, viciously, even while clutching at him. "How could you do that?" He inhaled and placed a hand at his chest, and Sherlock was surprised to see fear in Jon's eyes.

"I admit it may have taken me longer than I anticipated—"

Jon's eyes widened in disbelief. "Longer than... damn your hide, Sherlock. Your mother has been beside herself." He winced and clutched at his hip.

Sherlock growled and looped an arm over his shoulders and slid another round Jon's waist. "What are you doing out here, you can hardly stand."

Jon hissed in pain as they made their way towards their home. "I was nearly— _ah_ _careful_ — about to go find you."

"Don't be stupid. You'd have collapsed before you left the courtyard."

Jon grumbled and tugged on him when they reached a large oak. "Wait," he breathed. His skin had gone pale, and there were beads of perspiration along his brow.

Sherlock tisked and gently propped him against the tree for support. He craned his neck around the thick trunk for a quick look around them, and then darted back in to press a kiss against Jon's lips. He leaned his forehead against his friend's. "You're mad. I was never in any danger." A partial truth, but Jon did not need anything further to stress him.

Jon rested his palms on Sherlock's shoulders. "I am incensed with you." He looked up into his eyes. "You left _without_ me. You said you wouldn't." His lower lip jutted out and Sherlock ducked down to suck it into his mouth. The temptation of a pouting Jon was too much to resist.

Jon stood woodenly against him, but did not push away. "You cannot... get around me... I really am— " Sherlock ran his tongue over that lip before pushing it into Jon's mouth. He allowed Sherlock to plunder that mouth for a long moment before protesting again.

"Mmm, _no_." Jon pulled back even while his body swayed into Sherlock's. "Alcestis is going to thrash you, and..." he trailed off, closing his eyes.

Sherlock butted his head against Jon's when he didn't continue. "What is it?"

Jon sighed, and when his eyes next met Sherlock's they were pinched with anxiety. "Sherlock. We... there will be a guest at dinner tonight."

Sherlock blinked, his brow furrowed, and he was reminded of the servants in the kitchen that morning. "Father is returning home."

Jon's fingers clutched at his shoulder. "Yes. And Cleitomachus will be joining him."

Sherlock stared at Jon for a heartbeat before his stomach clenched and he felt the beginnings of nausea stir his stomach. "Meaning..."

Jon sagged back into the oak. "I think... Sherlock, I... Alcestis says he approached her and..."

"He means to make a formal claim for you," Sherlock breathed. His vision briefly dotted with black spots and he slowly leant into Jon, who wrapped slightly shaking arms about him. They stood, cheek to cheek, breathing into the other's ear.

"He can't." Sherlock whispered.

Jon dropped his face into Sherlock's shoulder. "He _will_ ask, though."

Sherlock gripped Jon's waist and pulled him close. "He can ask all he wants and you will tell him no."

When Jon didn't respond, Sherlock whipped his head up, eyes wide. "You will tell him _no_." he insisted again. Jon's lower lip was between his teeth and he was looking down to the ground. Sherlock shook him once. "Jon?"

Jon's lips parted with a breath, though his eyes remained downcast. "I... of course I will say no, but— "

"Then that is settled." Sherlock hissed. He stepped away from Jon and ran frustrated hands through his hair before settling them at his hips. "You are not a slave to be bought or bartered with."

"But I am not a citizen of Athens," Jon whispered.

"That does _not_ matter. You are a free man of Greece."

"Your father— "

"If you do not wish to take an erastes, father will listen and respect your wishes."

Jon's mouth worked silently and he looked up to Sherlock with reddened eyes. "I... your father will push the issue, no let me finish," he snapped when Sherlock tried to interrupt. Jon exhaled and pressed the heels of his palms into this eyes. "He has always encouraged a career with the military, and he will jump at this chance. It... it is an _honour_ to be chosen— "

" _Jon_."

Jon's lips were curved down into a miserable line, and he curled his fingers into Sherlock's tunic. "I know."

Sherlock stared at Jon, heart on the verge of breaking. "Are you saying..." he swallowed and tried again. "Do you... want... Cleito— "

"No," Jon interjected.

Sherlock exhaled with relief. His hands came up to cup Jon's against his chest. "Then what are we arguing for?"

Jon groaned and then winced again and brought a hand to his hip. Sherlock moved forward and pulled his friend to him, deeply inhaling the scent of his hair.

"I am merely warning you. Septimius will press this."

"And I will press back harder. As will you." His lips grazed Jon's temple. "If that is what you do want," he whispered. An idea struck him then and he leaned back to meet Jon's gaze. "We are going to arrange your formal anatomy training starting next week."

Jon's lips quirked in a crooked grin. "Are we?"

" _Yes_."

Jon nodded. "I agree. If I am to enter the Academy next year, I need to begin studying more sophisticated lessons soon."

"You and I both. And we will tell this to father." Feeling slightly shaky himself, Sherlock brushed another gentle kiss on Jon's mouth. Jon tilted his face up to receive, and Sherlock lost himself for a moment in the soft slide of lips against his. His body thrummed with irritation and anxiety at the thought of the coming evening. Cleitomachus was a decent enough man, but he would simply have to find another erômenos. And Sherlock needed to impress upon Jon exactly how abhorrent he found that. Tonight.

Sherlock reluctantly pulled away. "Do you want to hear what I learned today?"

Jon's expression twisted again into annoyance, and he lightly smacked Sherlock's chest as if remembering that he was still angry with him. "Yes."

"I went back to the site of Alcaeus' death, but I did not find much, so I went to Sebastos'."

"You what!"

Sherlock ran a soothing palm down Jon's neck as if gentling a foal. "Nothing happened. Well, nothing violent against me, but I learned a great deal."

Jon unclenched his palms and jerked his head for Sherlock to continue. Sherlock quickly relayed his conversation with Sebastos to Jon, who listened carefully and cursed and swore.

"That snake! Of course he's gone to ground. If he knew you suspected anything, which obviously you would, then he would _have_ to flee."

Sherlock frowned. "It does not seem like him, though," Sherlock rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. "He seems the sort to face something head on."

Jon scoffed. "He is a coward and a snake. Once he strikes he is quick to move on." Jon carefully crossed his arms. "He is clever, like you, only _his_ heart is black and he cares not what damage he leaves in his trail."

Sherlock smirked. "You think I don't leave damage in mine?"

Jon rolled his eyes. "You leave chaos, not so much damage. At least not the kind that ruins lives."

Sherlock smiled fondly at his friend and shook his head. "And there is Sebastos to worry about. I'm certain he was complicit in his assistance. But he is also foolish, and I suspect Morsimus might set him up to take the fall, single-handed, should it be ruled murder."

"What do we do about him?" Jon narrowed his eyes and mumbled something denouncing Sebastos' legitimate parentage.

"I'm going to test the residue inside the skein and see if it is toxic. I'll then gather up all our evidence and go to Grigórios." He looked over his shoulder to his fallen rucksack. "Let me just get my pack and then we can go back inside so you can rest."

Jon nodded and watched as Sherlock trotted over to his bag and back.

"Here, get your arm round me again," Sherlock said. Jon fastened himself back to Sherlock's side, and they began once more for the house. "Has... anyone arrived yet?"

Jon nodded. "Your father is back, but no one else." He blew out a frustrated breath, and Sherlock gently squeezed his side. "We'll think of something. Do not worry."

A few more laborious steps farther, and Jon started shaking. Sherlock stopped immediately, then frowned to see that Jon was laughing. "What?"

"I was just thinking."

Sherlock arched a brow.

Jon turned to him with a delighted grin. "About when your mother sees you. She's going to yell so loudly."

Sherlock's lips thinned and he felt himself shrinking in on himself. Perhaps he should have told her where he was going earlier....

"Ohh, she is going to properly rip you apart." He elbowed Sherlock's ribs. "And it would serve you right."

"Yes, yes, my torture will be to your delight."

Jon limped along beside him. "I would never delight in your actual torture, though. I would despair. Which is why we are so upset with you."

They reached the courtyard and upon seeing the pair of adolescents, two servants rushed forward to assist. Sherlock sent one away to inform their mother of his return, and the other helped him manoeuvre Jon back into his room and upon his bed. They fluffed Jon's pillows and saw to his comforts, and Sherlock settled in to await his penance. When they were alone, Jon reached a hand out for his, and Sherlock sat beside him to twine their fingers.

"You mustn't leave me either, Sherlock," Jon murmured. He was reclining back with closed eyes, and squeezed his hand. "Not ever."

"Likewise."

When Alcestis' shriek sounded through the house, Jon chuckled and Sherlock winced.

"Rip. You. Apart."

"Shut up, Jon."

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

Sherlock paced his bedchamber. His mother had forced him to wear one of his finer chitons, and he pinned on the biggest, gaudiest fibula he had. There was a sizeable ruby in the head, and his mother rolled her eyes as she helped to fasten it for him. Down the hall, Laodice was likewise assisting Jon.

"Stop fidgeting," she scolded when he kept trying to pull away. Sherlock huffed and ran a hand over his belly in an attempt to soothe his bubbling nerves. Her eyes flicked down towards the movement and she exhaled. She lay her hands on his shoulders and fixed her gaze on her son's.

"Sherlock," she began and then stalled. Sherlock watched with trepidation as she attempted to gather her thoughts for something dramatic. He swallowed nervously and shuffled on his feet. "I... you must be ill at ease," she eventually said.

Sherlock held still within her grasp but allowed a small dip of his chin in agreement.

She fluttered her long, delicate fingers against the side of his neck. "I know you are," she murmured. "It's... when Cleitomachus asked me to arrange a meeting with your father... " she sighed and met his gaze again. "We both know why he is here."

Sherlock felt his stomach clench again, and he jerkily nodded.

She bit her lip and nodded back. "I imagine you are feeling— "

"Jon does not want it," he blurted out.

She paused and her eyes widened. "I'm sorry?"

"Cleitomachus," he said, lowering his voice. "He... he does not _wish_ to have an erastes."

Alcestis' eyes softened, and Sherlock went on before she could refute him. "He has told me. I know that, for some, this man's asking would be an extreme honour, I know that. Jon knows that. But he still does not desire it."

His mother's eyes searched his for a long moment and Sherlock felt his pulse thrumming at his neck, right near her fingers. Finally, she nodded and looked away.

"You know this for certain?"

"Yes," he answered immediately. Perhaps she would have her say on Jon's behalf to father.

"I know change is difficult, Sherlock, and the two of you have always been _so_ close— "

"I tell you he does _not_ wish it, mother," he insisted again.

"And do you honestly believe that if your opinion, your own... feelings, were not tied up with his that he would deny this opportunity? Think hard on this, because for a boy of Jon's background, this is a blessing very few are graced with."

Sherlock felt his stomach flutter with guilt and panic. His palms grew damp, and he could not look into her eyes while his thoughts were no doubt laid bare for all to see reflected within his own.

"But it is because of mine that he..." he whispered, hoping desperately that she would simply _understand_. "I... we... he is all I know, and I for him..."

"And children grow up to follow new paths, to learn of and from others. That is part of life."

"He is not _ready_ ," he said, fierce in his convictions. "He wants to study medicine, he wants to be more than some poor boy forced into a helmet, given a weak blade, and sent to fight for a polis that has not even given him full rights. He has a _mind_ that can be used for more than hurling a spear. If you send him away with Cleitomachus he will lose that potential! It is cruel and unfair!"

"There!" Alcestis cried, smile radiant. "And _that_ is what Jon must tell your father and Cleitomachus."

Sherlock felt as if he had missed a step and fallen, so unexpected was her reply. "What?"

She took his upper arms in her hands and gently shook him. "That is the angle you must play upon if you have a hope of convincing your father to let Jon continue his studies after tonight."

Sherlock recoiled. "He would not possibly force Jon to— "

"No, but if he felt there was the slightest hesitation, simply to spare your feelings he would. You know he would," she said, urgently. "I love my husband, but Zeus knows the man sometimes gets blinded by connections, and politics, and he has always wished for someone in the family to follow in his father's footsteps. Of course that will never be you or your brother, but with Jon, as his patron, he would hope to achieve glory for the family through him, and Jon is so very talented."

She smoothed the fabric over her son's chest, and arranged the graceful folds that fell from his waist. "If Jon wishes to one day continue these pursuits, that is perfectly fine." She looked up. "But not yet."

Sherlock's smile broke upon his face and he kissed his mother's forehead. "This is what I have been telling him! He agrees, naturally, but— "

"Well, just be sure to have Jon say all of this. He can delay. If you think I want to see him get sent off to that kind of life, and this young, you must be mad. Now, I will work on your father, if you're _certain_ Jon feels— "

"He does, I swear he does."

"Also," she continued, "I invited Grigórios tonight."

"You... what?"

She smirked. "I had my reasons." Like Jon, his mother had the annoying habit of smacking Sherlock when she was worked up and frustrated at him, too. "Whatever you learn from... whatever it is you have found regarding that poor boy today, and don't you _ever_ do such a thing on your own again or I will _skin_ you _alive_ , you must go to him with it. He is a trustworthy man."

The faintest carry of voices met their ears, signalling the arrival of the famed warrior, and Alcestis turned to go before she could be seen. Sherlock frowned and wished not for the first time, desperately, that she would have been allowed to dine with them that night. But, as per tradition, she would be hidden away in her chambers, with her maids, probably fretting herself to near-hysteria.

"Do not get worked up. It will all work itself out. Be there for Jon." She paused. "Be there as the reminder of what he is choosing..."

Sherlock felt his cheeks warm and he stammered. "I... w-well, I will, obviously... " but she did not stay to hear him finish his awkward aversions, and instead slipped through the drapes and disappeared.

Sherlock blew out a puff of breath and shook his head. That woman. Athena had to whisper in her ear some days, he was sure of it. Grigórios would be a perfect buffer in order to diffuse the formality of the night, and he'd be willing to bet that Cleitomachus did not know of this last-minute addition. Oh, his mother was cunning.

With a shake, he fussed once more with the folds of his chiton, and then steeled himself before rushing off to quickly share this news with Jon. And then they would have to leave to face his father.

And the man who would try to convince Jon to part from his side.

 

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay last week. I was sick with some form of bastard plague.
> 
> Again, so much gratitude for the kind and encouraging words. :)


	13. Book I, Chapter xiii

"Jon, we should talk before—”

"How do I look?" Jon smirked, cutting him off as Sherlock slipped into the room.

Sherlock stopped and let his eyes drag over Jon from his sandals to the top of his golden head, momentarily forgetting the conversation they needed to have before withdrawing to the dining hall. Jon was wearing a new chiton his mother had weaved for him, and the hem was accented with thick bands of blue. His hair had been styled more carefully than usual; likely Laodice's doing, and it had been tamed to frame around his face with the slight curls that were so fashionable among youths. His chest and arms, where they were bare, shone attractively in the lamp light with a light sheen, and Sherlock itched to trace the dips along his biceps and between his pectorals. At his shoulder, Jon wore a simple gold fibula. Not the nice one his father had often worn, and that went a long way to making Sherlock feel much better. As if Jon weren't trying as hard as he could have to impress the man coming to claim him.

He stood back to take in the whole view and felt his belly heat with desire. Jon was...

"You are beautiful," he whispered, defeated. Jon was so lovely, and the gymnast was so charming, and attractive, and had his father's obvious approval, and Jon would be so flattered, and there was nothing Sherlock could possibly offer to him except his complete and utter regard.

Jon gaped and blinked back at Sherlock, as if surprised. He stammered a bit and his cheeks flushed. "I... that's," he huffed a nervous laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. Jon looked up and gave Sherlock an adorable half grin. "That's usually what I think when I look at you." He shrugged. "No one has ever said that to  _me_  before, though."

Sherlock's feet were moving before he even realised they were doing so, and he pulled Jon to him, crashing their lips together. Jon's mouth opened with a startled gasp, and Sherlock thrust his tongue inside, sighing at the heat and the feeling of Jon's tongue swirling with his. Jon's fingers wrapped around Sherlock's neck and jaw, and he pushed against him until their bodies were flush together. Sherlock gasped into Jon's mouth, wrapping one arm around his back, and using his free hand to tilt Jon's jaw to the perfect angle.

"So beautiful," he mouthed against Jon's lips. Jon gave a tiny moan and pulled Sherlock closer, licking deeply into his mouth. Sherlock smiled at how good they were getting at kissing. How much more precise and sensual their movements together were becoming. Their kisses were wet and sometimes hurried, but they were filled with a more direct... passion. Jon's kisses made Sherlock's knees go weak, made his heart and stomach quiver, made his eyes flutter and fall closed.

"Mmm, stop," Jon breathed, pulling back an inch, only to have his lips' retreat followed by Sherlock's. "You always... do this." Jon giggled and placed his palms against Sherlock's chest and lightly pushed.

Sherlock made a sound of great disappointment and attempted to chase his lips once more. That had been a very  _good_  kiss and he wanted more of it. He wanted to feel more of Jon. Wanted to unpin those graceful folds of fabric and see what the rest of Jon looked like while aroused. His stomach jolted and quivered with the idea and he panted. His fingers dug into Jon's back and he pulled him close.

Jon ducked away from Sherlock's kiss and placed an apologetic one on his neck. He rested his golden head upon Sherlock's shoulder and hugged him close.

"If we continue, when we go out there, every single person will know what we've been up to."

Sherlock rubbed his nose along Jon's ear and smiled wickedly. "Good. Then perhaps our points will be made, he'll leave, and we can put this whole thing behind us."

Jon giggled into his shoulder and gave him a final squeeze before stepping back. His hands lingered at Sherlock's waist, but his easy smile slowly melted away to be replaced by a sad one. "I am sorry for how this has made you feel," he whispered.

Sherlock gave into his urge and he smoothed his palms along Jon's chest, delighting in the feel of solid muscle beneath. "I suppose it cannot be helped how attractive you are."

Jon groaned and rolled his eyes. He softly smiled up at him and asked, "What was it you were trying to tell me earlier?"

Ah, yes. Sherlock quickly relayed the conversation he'd had with his mother, and Jon's jaw dropped.

"I would not have been allowed to study if I went with Cleitomachus?" he asked in disbelief.

Sherlock shrugged. "I cannot speak to his... personal ethos on the matter," Sherlock sneered, and if he lingered any longer on thinking of how the gymnast would  _be_  with Jon he was going to be ill. "But there is a distinct possibility he would keep your focus, and your acquaintances, strictly military. You cannot allow that to happen."

Jon cast a worried gaze to the floor and nodded. "No, I cannot. That would be..." Jon's face twisted in a grimace. "...severely limiting." He directed his wide, blue eyes back to Sherlock and gripped the fabric of his chiton. "You must help me."

Sherlock pulled Jon back in and gave him a reassuring kiss. "I will be right beside you." He pressed another kiss to willing lips. "You will be firm." Kiss. "Appeal to father's rationality and he will see sense."

Jon sighed and pressed his forehead against Sherlock's. The two stood in the soft, flickering light, listening to the muted sounds of laughter and conversation filtering in from outside their sanctuary.

"Sherlock," Jon eventually murmured, "you know he is a good man. You're not going to humiliate him." Sherlock tensed under Jon's fingers. "I will present my logic and requests at the right moment, and I will trust you to chime in when necessary." Jon affectionately bumped his head against his. "Cruelty is not needed, I think."

Sherlock sighed a long-suffering sigh. "I will be... sensible." He added, "Unless something more dramatic and to the point is needed."

Jon playfully pinched his waist and Sherlock yelped. The fair haired youth darted in for one last, quick kiss. "Behave," he warned.

Footsteps sounded just outside of the curtains, and the two stepped away from each other. Sherlock's stomach was roiling with nerves, and lingering lust, but he trusted Jon to make his wishes known. Trusted that Jon's desires did not lie with another. It was the right course of action.

One of the servants announced that Septimius was ready to receive them in the andron, rather than the dining hall, and Sherlock cocked a brow at this. His father intended this to be special? He and Jon's eyes met, and Jon gave him a soft smile. 

"How are you feeling?" he asked, eyeing Jon's injured hip.

Jon straightened his spine and squared his shoulders. "Fine. Certainly well enough to sit and talk for a while."

Sherlock grinned at his levity. They would be all right.

The two slowly followed after the servant, and Sherlock rolled his eyes as the sound of a lyre filled the hall. His father had hired a musician for the night? Was this to be a symposium, then? His father had several times entertained guests in their well-appointed andron, and the men would linger long into the night, eating roasted meats, drinking well-mixed wines, and laughing or conversing for hours. Sherlock and Jon had been allowed to attend a couple, but Mycroft would often return to be in attendance when he had come of age. When they had been younger, he and Jon had hidden out in the darkened halls and listened to what was supposed to be important grown-up discussions. Usually it was monstrously boring, but when their conversations turned to more entertaining topics, the boys had been rapt to learn new, bawdy jokes or terms, and they had stuffed their tiny fists in their mouths to muffle their giggles.

Tonight would be much less entertaining, though the subject matter would be skirting similar conversation.

Jon was made to enter first as the other person of interest, and Sherlock felt his muscles tense for what would probably be the rest of the evening. His father and Cleitomachus were stretched out, lounging decadently upon silken covered, down-filled pillows, with delicate glasses of wine in their hands. Servants were standing about with various trays of delicious-smelling foods. Sherlock, unfortunately, had no appetite, but that wouldn't stop them from attempting to fill his plate over the coming hours. The musician was set up in a corner, playing his lyre. Sherlock barely restrained a scoff; assuming one called that "playing." Lights flickered in their sconces along the walls and in lamps dotted along the table in the centre, lending a bright, yet soft atmosphere. At any other time it would be pleasant. That night it was hateful.

As Jon carefully stepped forward, lightly favouring his right, Cleitomachus took notice and quickly sat up straight. The older man’s smile reached his eyes, accentuating the laugh lines that fanned out from their corners. He reached towards him and gestured to the grouping of pillows arranged at his side. Sherlock saw Jon swallow and briefly look back towards him. He clenched his fists as Jon slowly moved towards him and settled himself on the farther side of pillows. Sherlock internally cringed when Cleitomachus rose to assist him. When he placed his large hands on Jon's skin. When his fingers lingered just a bit too long for simple concern.

"Sherlock," his father greeted warmly. "Come sit with us, my son." He likewise gestured to a scattering of pillows near his side. Sherlock gracefully moved towards him and grabbed up a couple to toss closer to Jon, where he chose to settle. His father's lips tightened at this, but he quickly smiled and motioned for the servants to bring their trays and begin the meal.

Sherlock could not help but notice that Grigórios was still absent, and he silently prayed the man arrived soon. Nervous, he cut his gaze again to Cleitomachus, who was smiling at Jon, and supervising the pouring of his wine.

"Jon," Septimius said, once all glasses had been filled. "I was pleased to hear that you performed exceptionally well and did our house proud at your final assembly." He raised his glass, and everyone followed. "A toast to Jon and his bravery, and to our distinguished guest. We are honoured to have you in our home. And to Apollo for his gracious guidance in our young champion's life."

There was a resounding cheer and Jon blushed clear up to his hairline. 

Cleitomachus set his glass down and smiled fondly across to Jon. "He was glorious. I was sure to mention it then, and will repeat it now when I say so rare is it to teach such a fine, young man. It was my pleasure to help him hone his natural ability. I am sure his talents and skill will only improve with time." His voice lowered and he leaned subtly towards Jon with a meaningful gaze. "Something I greatly hope to continue nurturing in the future."

Jon's cheeks were pink and his lips curved in a soft smile, but he kept his gaze averted. "I am honoured to have your esteem, sir."

Cleitomachus chuckled and placed a large palm affectionately at the back of Jon's neck, and Sherlock's guts writhed like a basket of vipers.

"Well, it seems you have certainly earned it, Jon," Septimius said with a grin, observing the pair. "Our family welcomes such esteem."

Sherlock noted the signs of his father working himself up into another speech and he quickly cut him off.

"Jon has many talents," he blurted. The attention abruptly shifted away from Jon to Sherlock, and he raised himself a little higher. "He always has had."

"Not least for taming this one when no other could," he father added, sardonically, in his direction.

Blessedly, a servant at the entrance cleared his throat to announce the arrival of another guest, and a windblown Grigórios entered, flattening his hair from the many directions it had twisted on the journey there. Sherlock breathed a quiet sigh of relief, and he noted Jon seemed to as well.

"Are we talking about how little Jon somehow always managed to keep Sherlock from killing himself several times over as a child?" the man asked with a cocky grin.

Septimius cast a quick glance towards Cleitomachus, whose brows rose with polite surprise.

"That we are, Grigórios. Please, will you join us?"

The younger man nodded and sat himself between Sherlock and his father with a fond grin, and ruffled his curls. Sherlock scowled and attempted to reshape them. Why were people constantly trying to upset his hair? It was maddening.

"I never knew two lads who got up to so much mischief," the Battalion Leader continued. He gestured to a slightly baffled-looking Cleitomachus. "I was childhood friends with Septimius' elder son, Mycroft. I cannot tell you how many times these two descended upon us when I would visit." He took a sip of his wine. "It was like trying to remove leeches after a swim."

"Leeches!" Jon squawked.

Cleitomachus smiled and nodded but sent Septimius a questioning glance. "I was not aware there would be others joining us."

Septimius, ever the politician, smiled with false humility and sent a look to Grigórios. "Ah, my wife informed me that she had sent an invitation to Grigórios last minute, but as I had not heard from him, I was not certain...."

Grigórios bowed his head. "I do apologise. I was away from home when the invitation was sent, and I would have arrived at the same time as anyone bearing my reply would have." He looked back and forth between the older men. "Was I not meant to?"

Before his father could answer, Sherlock aimed an overly bright smile at the officer. "It is always good to see you. I particularly am glad to, as I have several questions regarding your recent project." He leant towards him and lowered his voice. "I also have something that may be of interest to you regarding the death of Alcaeus."

Grigórios cocked a brow at him and nodded. "Perhaps after dinner, then."

Sherlock's mind flashed to the rucksack under his window, and he wished he'd had enough time to at least test the contents inside the skein before submitting it. Nevertheless, he suppressed a smile of excitement at the prospect. Once they'd dealt with Cleitomachus the evening would not be a total loss if Grigórios at least listened to his theories and saw his evidence.

Where he sat, Cleitomachus shifted uncomfortably, but gamely joined in on the conversation his father had started while enquiring about Grigórios' attempt to organise policing units within Athens' walls. Sherlock took the time to shift closer towards Jon under the pretence of giving the officer more space.

"Hello," he murmured to Jon's left side.

Jon turned towards him. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

Sherlock stifled a giggle and plucked a morsel of lamb from Jon's plate.

"I was going to eat that," Jon snapped.

Sherlock shrugged and popped it into his mouth.

Jon cast a quick glance towards Cleitomachus and lowered his voice even further. "Do you think he will wait to ask in private now that," he nodded towards Grigórios. 

Sherlock chewed thoughtfully, regretting eating anything, but sometimes food just looked better on Jon's plate. "It is possible. But, when the time is right you can bring the discussion back to preparation for the Academy so there can be no doubt as to your personal intentions." He managed to catch Cleitomachus just shifting his gaze away from the two of them, and Sherlock leaned in closer to Jon. "I will join in after and tell father that we wish to start immediately."

Jon nodded, and when Sherlock reached for one more bit of lamb, tried to snatch it out of his greasy fingers. Sherlock huffed but wrestled it free with a satisfied hum as he chewed.

"You're a child," Jon hissed, but Sherlock saw his grin. Jon bumped against his arm and shook his head. "If you want us to be seen as older and responsible, stop stealing my food."

Sherlock rested a pompous hand upon his chest and rolled his eyes. "But this is a symposium, Jon. We are meant to be having fun."

Jon turned to grab his own morsel of lamb and carefully, purposefully, slid it between his lips before biting into it with a little moan. He washed it down with a sip of wine, letting his tongue dart out to catch a ruby bead sliding past the rim. "Are you having fun watching me squirm, then?"

Sherlock swallowed and felt his insides warm, his breaths quicken. "I am now."

"...but Jon had him patched up in no time and even managed to talk themselves  _both_  out of charges. It was quite something to see."

Around the room, the men laughed, and Sherlock and Jon started at the mention of his name. Grigórios was wiping tears of mirth from his eyes and beaming down the table at Jon.

"I had no idea he is as charming with words as he is competent with a blade," Cleitomachus said.

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "Jon has a gentle nature that is appealing to others. No doubt it will benefit him when he deals with patients in future." He calmly took a sip of wine and flicked a glance at Jon, hoping he would pick up his cue.

"Patients?" Cleitomachus asked.

Jon quickly nodded, setting his wine glass down. "Yes. I mean to study medicine next to become a physician. It has long been a childhood dream. My father began teaching me when I was four, really. He would pretend to have an injury so he could demonstrate the proper way to wrap bandages," Jon said with a wistful smile.

Cleitomachus' smile faded somewhat at the mention of this new goal of Jon's and he idly played with his glass. "You wish to be a physician? As well as a warrior?" He chuckled. "You want to pursue opposite professions." He leant back on his pillows. "It seems the more I learn of you the more complex you become."

Septimius was watching Jon carefully, so Sherlock decided to break his attention and contribute. "Speaking of, father, Jon and I were hoping to have lessons arranged beginning next week. If we are to begin formal education in the Spring, we are going to need more time with our new tutors."

Septimius' eyes cut to his son and he drummed his fingers along the table. "Next week, you said?"

Sherlock nodded. "I understand Diodorus has been in correspondence with several candidates. Will he also be the one to arrange them?"

Septimius glanced between the two without speaking for a moment, but ultimately, his gaze landed on Sherlock and he arched a brow. Sherlock kept his face passive but expectant. 

"I am not certain there is enough time to have lessons arranged quite  _that_  quickly—”

"Well, introductions and established curriculums at the very least," Sherlock interjected.

Septimius hummed vaguely. "I will speak with Diodorus and let you know."

Sherlock and his father stared at each other silently, and the tension in the room seemed to noticeably charge. 

Grigórios cleared his throat and reached for a basket of flatbread. "Who are you studying with?" 

Jon's chest puffed out and he raised his chin with pride. "We are hopeful that I shall gain a place studying under the great Erisistratus. While he is in Athens. He and another have founded a wonderful medical school in Alexandria."

"It would be ideal as he could then, potentially, gain an apprenticeship in Alexandria after the Academy." A far-away look settled upon Sherlock's features. "It would be the best sort of medical education possible."

"Egypt does have superior knowledge when it comes to the body." Jon added sagely.

Septimius reached again for his glass. "You have your heart settled with Erisistratus? Not Apollonios or Heraclides? They may be more available."

Jon toyed with a corner of flatbread and nodded. "All three are excellent. I would be honoured to study under any of them."

Cleitomachus observed Jon silently through their discourse, and Grigórios listened with interest. 

"And you, Sherlock? Do you also wish to study with these men?"

Sherlock leant his elbows onto the table and addressed the officer. "All of them are good, but I am more inclined to study a wider variety of subjects, rather than specialise in one or two. I would love to study directly with Acesilaus and Lyco."

"That..." Grigórios scrunched up his nose in thought. "But, those are both of the presiding scholarchs of the Lyceum  _and_  the Academy."

"Yes."

Septimius sighed and sipped at his wine. Grigórios pursed his lips in confusion. "But, that would mean you were to study at  _both_  institutions."

"Obviously," Sherlock drawled.

Grigórios grinned and shook his head. "Well then. I wish you the best of fortunes."

Sherlock nodded his acceptance and smirked across the table at his father.

"If he would choose _one_ master to study from who has more than an exceptional grasp of all the subjects he finds relevant it would be much simpler. As his brother did."

Jon snorted at Sherlock's side. "When is Sherlock ever merely simple?"

Sherlock grinned at Jon. "Thank you, Jon." He added, "And anyway, I can do much better than  _Mycroft_."

Grigórios' laugh rang throughout the hall, and Jon and Septimius both rolled their eyes. 

Septimius sent a weary glance to Cleitomachus. "My sons have always been the exact definition of sibling rivals."

"A constant source of entertainment, though," Grigórios offered.

"Yes, actually," said Jon.

Sherlock hmpf'd and crossed his arms.

"Well," Grigórios continued, "it is wise to get your education in now before Philip tries to move in." The officer scowled and Septimius and Cleitomachus groaned in agreement. The gymnast leaned forward.

"What is the latest news? The last I heard the Macedonian forces were pushing through Illyria."

Sherlock and Jon looked at each other, and Sherlock could tell Jon was itching to know more. The most recent war was something that had been far off in the background for a few years now, but it had mostly concerned Rome. Lately, Philip the V was encroaching on Greece's territories and it was beginning to make many in the South anxious. Athens was part of several poleis that had remained neutral throughout the conflicts, so it was assumed they would not have to worry about any potential encroachment.

Grigórios sighed. "So far the skirmishes are staying isolated to the North in Illyria, though, Rome is supposedly trying to call him back to sign a treaty."

"Yes, Mycroft was telling me about this just yesterday. Do you think they will follow through this time?"

Grigórios gave a weary shrug. "Who knows? Philip is finicky. He looks for the slightest aggrievements to pull out of any negotiation."

Cleitomachus growled. "Sounds like a perfect opportunity to conveniently forget about the remaining Greek borders. If they go through with their own treaty then the Romans will fall back and Greece will be exposed on her own."

Sherlock shifted anxiously in his seat. He could feel Jon's own tensions mounting and none of this was helpful in trying to dissuade Jon's interest in joining the military.

Septimius called for the wine to be replenished. "I have heard rumours of battalions of men heading out to aid Illyria, chiefly from the Spartans."

The other men nodded. Cleitomachus pursed his lips and frowned. "It is true. I myself have been very recently contacted for possible inclusion in another round of peace talks."

At this, everyone seemed to pause, and Sherlock's own interest in the discussion ramped up. If he were being called away... why then was he seeking out an erômenos now? This could even potentially be dangerous if he were to take Jon with him on such a mission. Father would not allow it. Not before he'd had extensive training first. Even now, his father looked surprised at the gymnast's admission, and he glanced uneasily at Jon. Sherlock felt another glimmer of hope pierce through the fog of worry.

Grigórios' eyes widened and he leaned back from the table. "I thought you were out of that game."

Cleitomachus cut his eyes to Jon with a rueful smile. "One certainty in war is that there are never any certainties. Even when retired."

Septimius steepled his fingers. "I suppose that makes sense. Who better to join such talks than a popular public figure? A celebrated warrior, gymnast, and for many people, a much-respected hero."

Cleitomachus waved his praise away. "You are kind, Septimius. However, I believe I was approached with this mission because I have had dealings with Philip before. The man is... ambitious to say the least."

"When would this party depart?"

Cleitomachus shrugged. "I am not certain." His eyes fell on Jon and his lips turned up in a quick smile. "And I have not yet agreed.”

Jon stared back at him and slowly nodded in acknowledgement. He toyed with his wine glass and inhaled to speak, then paused as if to consider.

“You once mentioned,” Jon said, “that you were travelling to other poleis for additional training courses. Is that still your intention?”

The sounds of cutlery and glasses clinking settled around the room, and Sherlock did his best to ignore all else in order to listen to Jon and the gymnast’s words.

“It is. However, whereas before I had two other locations set up, I think it best to fulfil my obligations to the immediate session in Corinth and leave off making further plans for now. In this political climate no plan is sometimes the best plan.”

Cleitomachus edged closer to Jon and ducked his head. Sherlock subtly moved in closer, as well, straining his ears.

“Despite this, Jon, I confess I do also have some intention towards giving you my… guidance. My attention.” The older man sighed and rubbed at his jaw. “I had many things I wanted to plan, including more time for leisure, certainly. I feel as if I have been wandering a long time now, and was looking forward to being a bit more stationary,” he chuckled.

Jon grinned. “Idle leisure every now and then seems warranted when you have been so very busy.”

Cleitomachus smiled and sipped at his wine. “Well, perhaps not _idle_.” The man bit at his lip and furrowed his brow. “You spoke of medical training. Do you truly wish to pursue such endeavours? They would take time.”

Jon nodded. “Two years at the very least if I wish to gain a firm understanding and be the best I can be.”

“And what of your military career?”

Sherlock held his breath even as his fingers tore a square of flatbread to pieces before him.

“I also have an interest there, too.”

Cleitomachus hummed and nodded. “So many admirable interests the youth of today pursue. I will agree that having medical knowledge, healing, would be of value on the fields of battle. I daresay we never have enough healers as it is.”

Jon nodded. “That is my feeling, too.”

Cleitomachus cocked his head and looked into Jon’s eyes. “I would speak with you in private, later. If I may? There is more I would like to discuss with you. More, ah, intimate conversations.” The older man brought his hand to Jon’s cheek and softly brushed his fingers upon it. Jon swallowed; Sherlock clenched his teeth.

Eventually, Jon jerkily nodded and turned away from the man. He picked up his glass of wine for a long drink.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock started at the mention of his name, and he turned wide eyes to see his father and Grigórios staring at him in varying levels of exasperation.

“Yes, what?” Sherlock snapped.

Grigórios shook his head. “I asked what this information regarding Alcaeus was about.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly to clear his mind from the distraction of Jon and cleared his throat. “I have, ah, evidence. I wanted to show you.”

Septimius arched a brow. “What evidence? This is about the boy that died the other day?” He turned towards Grigórios with a grave expression marring his face. “My wife told me there had been a suspected poisoning. And that Jon may even have suffered.”

There was a low growl from the other end of the table where Cleitomachus was scowling at the reminder.

Grigórios nodded. “There does seem to be a suggestion of foul play. Though, no one has been pointed out—“

“Has anyone mentioned the fact that Alcaeus and Morsimus were seen at odds earlier that day?” Jon groused. “Or that he is generally cold and ruthless? Or that the wound he gave me ended up nearly taking my life after the fact?”

Sherlock laid a hand on Jon’s thigh under the table. “These are all valid points, but we mustn’t forget that he has a likely accomplice in Sebastos.”

“Accomplice? How do you know this?” the officer asked.

Across from him, Septimius remained silent but there was a tightness around his mouth and eyes that Sherlock curiously took note of.

“Ask yourself: by what means could Alcaeus have been poisoned?”

“Well, the boy obviously ingested something.”

“Correct. How would he have done that?”

Grigórios frowned and crossed his arms. “Eating or drinking.”

Sherlock nodded and let a trickle of excitement creep up his spine. He had their attention, and for once, they were listening.

“Would you agree that given the speed in which he succumbed, and the lack of food present in his vomit at the site of his death would suggest he _drank_ his poison, however inadvertently?”

Grigórios’ eyes screwed up in thought, but presently he nodded. “Makes sense.”

Sherlock grinned. “Yet where was his wineskein? Did you find one at all on him?”

Grigórios paused before turned towards Cleitomachus. “To my recollection, we did not.”

The gymnast nodded slowly. “Yes. We searched for his effects; you also mentioned his sandals. We found nothing.”

Sherlock shifted onto his knees, his ramping energy getting the better of him, and he placed his palms down flat onto the table. “Precisely. But it had to come from somewhere, ergo, his killer. Find the skein that contained the poison, and you find his killer.”

“And you’re suggesting that _Morsimus_ killed him?”

“Just a moment,” Septimius chimed.

Sherlock blinked in surprise, his excited words halting on his tongue.

“You cannot simply go around accusing others when you have flimsy evidence at best. Boys get agitated. Their athletic trials were coming up. Competition was fierce. From that alone you cannot claim someone is a murderer.”

“True,” Sherlock nodded. “But combined with other information it could.”

“Such as?” Grigórios asked, leaning towards Sherlock with interest.

“Now wait!” Septimius barked. His breath came quickly, and Sherlock was alarmed to note that his father’s pallor had greyed. “You… Sherlock, I do not want you mixing with… with this. This is not your concern.”

Grigórios shifted anxiously beside him. “He claims to have further evidence. Legally, I am required to obtain it.”

Septimius wiped his brow and calmly reclined back on his pillows. “As his father, I can also require him to hold his tongue. If he has physical evidence, you may have it.”

“I do,” Sherlock said quickly. He quirked a brow at his father’s odd behaviour. He glanced at Jon and saw that he, too, was giving Septimius an odd look.

Septimius’ own brows rose. “What do you have?”

“A skein. Taken directly from Sebastos’ room.”

“Hold on, I thought you said Morsimus?”

“With Sebastos colluding,” Jon offered.

“Oh for…” Septimius sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Do you have a confession? Hm?”

Sherlock frowned. “Not in so many words, but he said enough to render them both completely suspicious. He also said that Morsimus has moved, and that I would be wise not to seek him out. Very odd wouldn’t you say?”

“Moved?” Grigórios asked. “To where?”

“His father,” Septimius interrupted, “is Molpagorus.” He sent a pointed look at Grigórios, who stilled. “I needn’t say much else to _you_ , Grigórios. But, to my son,” his father looked at Sherlock. “That man is very well known in Athens. If he were to find out that you were attempting to implicate _his_ son… he is not… the kindest of men.”

Sherlock settled back onto his seat and let his jaw minutely pop open. The tightness in his father’s expression, his obvious unwillingness to listen… his father was purposefully avoiding any mention to this other man. Morsimus’ father.

“Are you afraid of him?” Sherlock asked, surprised.

Septimius huffed. “Sherlock, there are some men with enough power to cause problems. For you, for me, our family.” He sighed. “Grigórios, take this skein Sherlock has claimed to have. Take and it do what you must, but then I ask you to not question my son any further.”

“Father!”

“ _No_. You _will_ let this go, Sherlock. I forbid you from pursuing it.”

Sherlock rose back up to his knees, scowling. “Are you serious? You are caving to this man, and thus, his son, because you are afraid of his alleged _power_? Where is your sense of justice? Your integrity?”

“These are not men to be on the wrong side of, and this is not your job. It is Grigórios’ and those who are charged with pursuing justice.”

“But I can help! Half the men _charged_ with pursuing cannot even _see_ —“

“I said _enough_!” Septimius roared, knocking his glass over and glaring down at his son. “You will obey me. Leave this alone.”

Sherlock froze, staring at his father in complete astonishment. He could count on one hand the number of times in which his father had ever lost his temper so. Around them, the room was still and tense. Sherlock’s face burned with humiliation and anger. He rose to his feet and tersely nodded once.

“Grigórios,” he clipped, “I will bring it out to you.”

Sherlock turned on his heel, ignoring all else, and calmly left the andron. Once in the hall, he exhaled his tension and balled his fists at his sides. He could scarcely believe his father was behaving in such a manner. And so publicly!

Sherlock ripped his draperies aside and crossed the darkened room towards the rucksack beneath his window. He grumbled to himself about ignorant fathers and the deplorable state of Athens… when he noticed something amiss.

He cocked a brow and looked down at the rucksack and, specifically, the leather strings dangling innocently at its sides.

“That is not how I left you,” he whispered. Immediately, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and he tore open the top of his pack with a feeling of dread. He was certain he’d left it tied up when he’d dropped it on the floor. He’d not had the time to even remove it.

One by one, he pulled out the few items he’d packed, and when his fingers did not brush against the wineskein he began to panic.

“Where is it?” he said aloud. “It was in here.”

With trembling hands Sherlock dumped the pack upside down, shaking it until it was empty – but there was no skein.

“No.” He looked about him, sifting fruitlessly on the ground, lifting up the bedclothes drooping onto the floor. “That cannot be.”

“Sherlock?” Jon called from the doorway.

“It is gone.” He sat back on his heels in utter disbelief.

“What is?”

“The skein! The one I stole from Sebastos! It is not in my pack. But it _was_ in my pack, I put it there myself, I had not _removed_ it.” He shot to his feet and stalked towards Jon.

“You are certain?”

“Yes! Obviously, why would I have done such a thing and not remembered? _Me_?”

Jon’s eyes then focussed on his bed and he gestured with his chin. “Perhaps it was taken.”

Sherlock spun around and froze when he saw the branch of belladonna he had harvested now resting atop his pillow.

“I did not…”

“You must tell your father.”

“Tell him what?” Septimius asked suddenly from the hallway. He moved forward, face hollowed with shadows from the meagre light streaming in from the open window. “Tell him what, Sherlock?”

Sherlock felt his shoulders sag and his heart thrum with anger and disappointment.

“My… someone has taken the evidence I gathered. From my room.”

Septimius brushed passed him and scanned the objects strewn about the floor. “I see.”

Sherlock felt Jon’s hand rest at the small of his back, and together they watched as Septimius reached forward to close and latch Sherlock’s window. He turned to them then, cast in complete shadow, silhouetted against the weak lamplight at his back.

“Jon,” he said quietly, “Cleitomachus would like to meet with you in the courtyard. I suggest you not keep him waiting.”

“No,” Sherlock began, “father, this is… Jon—”

“Is his own person and can speak for himself.” Septimius moved forward and stared down at the pair.

Beside him, Jon brushed his fingers down Sherlock’s back in apology, and Sherlock’s heart thumped in his throat.

“I will go and speak with him,” Jon whispered. As his footsteps moved farther and farther away, Sherlock felt his manic surge of energy from moments ago wane.

Septimius reached for Sherlock and briefly rested a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock nearly threw it off, but instead stood rigidly before him.

“Sherlock,” his father murmured. “I too would like to speak with you. I will send Grigórios along and return presently. Please wait for me in the library.”

His father left and Sherlock stood breathing through his frustration and rising despair. The night had been an utter disaster. He’d had his chance, he’d gotten his evidence, people were _listening_ to him, and now it had all been taken away from him. He’d been _ordered_ to back away from his first real case. And all because his father was, what? A coward? _His_ father?

And now Jon was with Cleitomachus, who was no doubt furthering his final attempts to woo Jon. But Jon had made his intentions clear enough, hadn’t he? Perhaps it was simply goodbye? His eyes squeezed shut and Sherlock felt his chest heave, felt his heart lurch, and abruptly he feared he were going to purge the few bites he’d managed to choke down from dinner. He groaned and scraped his palms over his face. Nothing was going to plan and everything was _wrong_. Disgusted, he strode out of his room and headed directly to his father’s library.

If anything he would have his say, and he was not above yelling the sense into his father with sheer, stubborn force of will.

 

  

 -*- φιλία -*-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More apologies for another delay in posting. The bastard plague decided to relapse last week - on my birthday. Rude.
> 
> Also, this chapter was originally a lot longer, but as the word count was steadily approaching 9K, I decided it should probably be broken up into two. So, there may be two more chapters for this book, rather than one, but we'll see.
> 
> I will, however, promise porn in the next chapter, regardless. Hooray, right? It's about damn time.


	14. Book I, Chapter xiv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock slowly loses his mind; Jon has decisions to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's about time I earned that 'M' rating. 
> 
> Please note, as a result, there will be underage (for us), um, sex.

Inside his father’s library the room was lit with several lamps, but Sherlock could not spare even one second to reflect on how fondly he normally regarded the space. He’d passed many an hour of his life in this room, listening to his father, reading his father’s scrolls and texts, but so great was his agitation that nothing but the sound of his feet slapping the stone floor beneath him seemed to register.

“You are going to wear a path in the floor,” his father said.

Sherlock stopped his pacing and folded his arms, keeping his gaze down. “You have sent Grigórios away, then?"

Septimius walked farther into the room and towards a wall of shelves. “I have.”

“Did you tell him?”

His father hesitated. “I did.”

Sherlock looked up at this. “And?”

“He asked who I thought would have done such a thing. I told him I could not possibly presume and I urged him not to as well."

Sherlock growled and threw his hands into the air. “You _know_ who did it. You acknowledge that someone snuck into our home to cover _their_ sins. You are wilfully obstructing justice."

“Do I want to know how you obtained this item in the first place?"

Sherlock scoffed and looked away. Certainly, he had taken it without Sebastos’ knowledge… but the boy would never have freely given it, either. Regardless, _that_ was not the point.

“Sherlock,” his father sighed, leaning into the wall at his back. His hands, just beginning to wrinkle with age, came up to rub circles at his silvering temples. His eyes, Sherlock noted, had lost their tightness and, to him, now seemed weary. “The death of that boy is regrettable.”

“He nearly _killed_ Jon!”

“And that is also deeply disturbing. Believe it or not, I would love to see those behind such heinous atrocities prosecuted accordingly.” At this, he looked up and Sherlock was surprised now to see a hint of fear his eyes. “But sometimes there are things beyond our control. There are people who… they do not care what destruction they cause or the pain they bring to others. It is abhorrent to say this, but, very occasionally, one must look the other way in order to protect the ones they love.”

Sherlock took a step back and openly stared at his father in shock. “How can you say such things?”

His father turned back towards his shelf and reached for a golden box.

Sherlock shook his head. His chest constricted with disappointment and sadness creeped into his heart to have seen this side of his father. A man he had once known to be moral and upright. Or, had in his childhood.

“You are still young, my son. One day you will understand that sacrifices must be made when you have a family.”

Sherlock’s fists were clenching up again and his palms were sweaty. More than anything he wanted to bolt out of that room and go to Jon. He would pull him from Cleitomachus’ side if need be and they could go to the river where they played as boys. He would tell Jon how much he loved him. He would kiss his face. He might even cry on his shoulder as he recounted the moment the childhood image of his father had crumbled before him.

Septimius, ignorant of Sherlock’s inner-turmoil, reached inside the golden box and withdrew a small, ivory figure. He smiled softly down at the object and ran his thumb over its smooth, polished surface. He turned then to his son and held it out to him. “Here,” he said.

Reluctantly, Sherlock reached forward and plucked it from his hand. His eyes quickly scanned over it, noting the history threaded throughout the little figure’s soft edges and greyed cracks.

“It is a cockerel.”

His father smiled. “It is.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he turned the little beast this way and that. “It was given to you. Many years ago.”

“I was fourteen,” his father said. “This was given to me by a very dear friend.”

At this, Sherlock’s brow arched and he gave his father a weighted look. His father cracked another smile and laughed quietly.

“More than dear,” he amended.

“You had a love affair with him,” Sherlock bluntly said.

His father nodded. “He was…” his father’s eyes seemed to drift, eyes focussed on long ago memories Sherlock could only imagine. “I suppose he was my Jon.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he unconsciously clutched the cockerel more tightly. He’d known his father had had many friends in his childhood, several he’d kept as an adult. He had deduced that one or two may have had intimate relations with his father in their youth, before his mother, but he’d not ever heard the man speak of someone with the same regard that Sherlock had for Jon.

“Well,” his father added, “perhaps not quite as close, but he was especially dear to me growing up. He was the first person I ever loved.”

Sherlock nodded and ran his own thumb over the smooth surface. Cockerels were commonly given to one’s same-sex partner, and had obvious connotations to homosexuality. Between adult lovers, it was even common to give them as pets. Sherlock had once even entertained the notion of carving his own miniature cockerel to give to Jon in a flight of fancy, but had ultimately scoffed at the overly-romanticised notion and not thought twice about it. Too obvious. Too common. Jon deserved better.

“We were together throughout my youth. Even for a time into my association with my own erastes. Though, these things are to be expected.”

Sherlock felt another horrible lecture building, and the back of his neck felt clammy with his unease. It was obvious the man knew something of his son’s regard for Jon, and Sherlock straightened his spine and met his father’s gaze. Ready for any attempt he might make to dissuade Sherlock’s affection for Jon. A part of him was also relieved to hear his father speaking openly of such relationships. It gave him hope that he would not cast his and Jon’s aside when they admitted it openly; when they formally pursued theirs.

“I loved him very deeply,” Septimius continued, “and he taught me many things. _How_ to love, how to _be_ loved. How to put another person’s needs before your own. He taught me the value of friendship. Loyalty.” His father reached back for the cockerel, and Sherlock let it slip from his hand into the others.

“What happened to him?”

His father brought the ivory bird to his lips and then turned and placed it safely back into the box. He turned to his son. “We grew up. As children do.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. “You abandoned him.”

“No, we grew up. There is a difference.” His father crossed his arms and leaned once more into the shelf behind him. “We met our wives and had our families. Friendships, they are… one of the greatest things a man, a person, can have. We need friends. We need relationships. They bring out the best in us. But, there comes a point when childish fancies must be cast aside. Opportunities arise, and we must be wise enough to see them for what they are. To be fearless enough to accept them and to utilise them to our greatest good.”

Sherlock scoffed. “And you think that _Cleitomachus_ is Jon’s greatest good? That war and battles and blood are for Jon’s greatest good?” Sherlock crossed his own arms and frowned at his father. “He is better than that. And moreover, Cleitomachus, if he gets entangled with these… skirmishes up North, can get Jon killed.”

Septimius winced. “I regret that I was not informed about his intentions regarding the war. Though, to be fair to Cleitomachus, it appears as if what we learned tonight was only lately presented to him, as well.”

“And you approve?”

Septimius sighed and pushed away from the shelf to settle more comfortably at his desk. “For Cleitomachus, yes. For Jon…”

Sherlock held his breath and mentally prayed to Apollo.

“I must admit that Jon is too young, too green, to be introduced to such an atmosphere.” He looked up sharply to his son. “But I am certain Cleitomachus knows this as well. He would never willingly endanger Jon.”

Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes. His skin itched with a need to escape that room and find his friend.

“The man means to court him first. Jon is very nearly at an age when he cannot decently accept an erastes. But he needs this connection, Sherlock.” He shook a finger sternly at Sherlock. “Jon needs this. Do not be so selfish that you would block his opportunities, boy.”

“And if he does _not_ want this?”

“Then I will, reluctantly, accept his desires. I promised his father.”

Sherlock nodded, feeling a great sense of relief soothe his frayed nerves.

“You know,” his father continued, “the two of you have been asked for numerous times since you were twelve. Especially you, with your great beauty and intelligence.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up and his eyes widened.

“Philomenes, and your mother and I, all felt that you were not ready. Particularly you.” He arched a sardonic brow. “That does not stop people from asking for you every other month, however. Diodorus, too, had always been insistent that you were not…suited for such an arrangement.” He sighed and rolled his eyes to the heavens. “I’ve no idea what we shall do with you. Your brother and I will have to intervene on your behalf when you decide you are ready.”

“Very well. You’ve made your opinions known, may I go?”

“Diodorus _had_ been insistent,” his father said, and Sherlock paused in his exit. “Recently, however, he feels you and Jon have… grown. Emotionally.”

Sherlock’s face twisted with a sneer. “I have no desire to take an erastes. I want nothing any of them could offer me. I have told you this, numerous times. You know my wishes.”

Septimius raised his palms in defence. “I am aware. I merely feel obligated to enquire one more time, but Sherlock. Just because you are so vehemently against this tradition does not mean you should hinder Jon. Do _not_ be selfish and risk holding your friend back.”

Sherlock recoiled. “Hold him _back_?”

“I merely ask that you reflect on how your actions and opinions will affect Jon in the long term. Because they do. You affect him a great deal. And vice versa.” His father mumbled with a frown, “Too much.”

“Duly noted. Friendships are important, but do not waste your time cultivating them, and if someone tries to bully you, despite their offences, I should turn and look away. Excellent lesson on morals tonight, father, now may I leave?”

For a moment, Septimius appeared stricken and his jaw worked silently. “Is that what you get from our discussion? What you think I subscribe to?”

“What else should I have taken from your lecture? Is that not what you said?” Sherlock spat.

Septimius sat in his beautifully carved chair, at his beautifully carved desk and stared at his son. For a brief moment, he thought he saw a trace of regret flit through his eyes.

Sherlock groaned and waved his hands towards the door. “Is that all?”

His father pursed his lips and folded his hands together. He nodded.

Without another word, Sherlock bolted for the door and immediately tore down the hall and towards the courtyard. He reasoned that Jon could not have gotten far, not with his injury. When he reached the main door leading into the courtyard, he moved as silently as possible, and cleared his mind of all other thought but finding Jon. Various torches were burning in their holders lining the edges of the enclosure, but all Sherlock could make out were the shapes of palms and trees. His ears strained for any sound, any hint of movement, and he went with a gut feeling that suggested they would have walked towards the front of the courtyard’s entrance. He picked along a path, avoiding as much crunching gravel and stones as he could, until he finally heard the murmur of voices floating towards him on the wind.

Cleitomachus and Jon were speaking beside the warrior’s great horse; a hulking, magnificent beast of pure white that appeared to glow amidst the dark of the gathering night. Jon was laughing at something the man said and Sherlock fought down another spike of bitter jealousy. Was it so wrong to want to be the only person who could make Jon laugh?

Sherlock positioned himself behind the largest in a row of olives, and dared to peek out further to see how they were getting on. Jon should be urging the man to leave by now, and it took all of Sherlock’s control not to storm out there and demand he leave at once. But, he had promised Jon that he would behave. That he would be sensible. Which, in hindsight, was a very stupid thing to promise.

Though it was difficult on his straining eyes, he could just make out the darkened silhouettes of the two against the paleness of the horse, which was pawing anxiously at the ground. Cleitomachus reached up to pat the animal in a soothing manner, and then leaned towards Jon. Sherlock watched, heart in his throat, as Jon leaned in to better hear the something Sherlock could not. Then Cleitomachus took his hands. He took Jon’s hands, both of them, within his own, and looked down into Jon’s eyes.

“Tell him no,” Sherlock whispered, pleading into the wind. His fingers bit into the rough bark of the tree and he pressed hard against it. Above and around him, cicadas sang out into the night. Their mating calls pulsed in rhythms and Sherlock briefly wondered if the gods were punishing him for spying by making them especially loud.

Obviously, Cleitomachus’ words were lost, but from the outline of his posture it was clear he was speaking sincerely. Jon looked away, and how desperately Sherlock wished that he could see Jon’s expression. Seconds ticked by, and Sherlock thought the warrior may have mumbled something else, but damn it all he simply could not hear! A small eternity passed, and just when Sherlock thought that surely this time his heart was going to leap out of his throat and into his _mouth_ , Jon finally answered... with a nod. A nod that caused Sherlock’s knees to buckle and his breath to leave. A nod, a tiny little movement, a simple response to whatever had Cleitomachus waiting, and all of these simple moments were wreaking havoc on Sherlock's entire existence - and then the unthinkable happened. The warrior leaned down even farther, his bulk all but towering over Jon. Consuming Jon. Absorbing the majority of the dark shape that made up Jon’s silhouette within the other's, and Sherlock watched as Jon stood stiffly against that larger dark shape, not even attempting to move away when Cleitomachus brought the dark shape of his mouth towards the dark shape of Jon’s lips and oh gods, he was _kissing_ Jon. It was kissing wasn’t it? Was it? _What was Jon and his dark shape doing?!_

With a wave of gratitude that nearly sent Sherlock to the ground, Jon pulled back almost as soon as their silhouette's combined, and then stepped back, and Cleitomachus released his hands and stepped away, too, and Sherlock gripped his tree until the bark began flaking off beneath his fingers. The warrior gave a short bow, his massive, shadowed hand brushed Jon’s cheek, and he leapt up onto his great, glowing steed and called goodbye.

Sherlock, collapsed against his tree, stared with stinging eyes as the ethereal horse disappeared into the night and the black shape of Jon remained watching after. When Jon finally turned, he began limping back towards the house, and Sherlock could take it no longer. He pushed off the tree, stumbling on his first step as he ran to Jon.

The other boy's steps faltered as if startled, and he stopped. “Sherlock?”

“Jon.” His heart raced as quickly as his feet. Gods above, why had he waited so long?

Jon shifted onto his good leg in the dark. “How long were you there?”

“ _Jon_ ,” Sherlock breathed. His limbs felt heavy and sluggish but he did not stop until his hands took hold of Jon's arms and tugged him close enough to feel his breath.

“Sherlock, what did you—”

“Where did he kiss you?” Sherlock demanded. Desperation was making him feel manic and dim-witted, but he had to know. And _Jon_ had to know.

In the moonlight Jon’s face was just visible, and Sherlock was dismayed to note his brows were downturned along with his lips. His face was filled with pity and guilt, and it twisted and clawed at Sherlock’s heart, his lungs, his… everything. Pity was _not_ what Jon gave him. Not ever. His sad lips parted on an inhale to speak again but Sherlock was first.

“Please!” Sherlock cried. His body began to tremble and his dry mouth worked with the desire to speak, to say something important. But how does one frame words that feel so meaningless compared to all that Jon was? The very notion was as ridiculous as the one that someone _else_ could physically _touch_ Jon. “Please," he said again, fingertips digging into Jon's biceps.

Jon closed his eyes and placed the tip of one finger to a spot just at the corner of his lips. Sherlock surged forward and pressed his own against the spot so forcefully that Jon stumbled back a step, gripping Sherlock's own arms for support. Sherlock's lips pressed against the offending patch of tainted skin over and over, his breath rolled against Jon's cheek, and his tongue darted out to lick, to reclaim where the _intruder_ had marked. Sherlock's mouth kissed and pecked, and he wrapped the long fingers of one hand around Jon's jaw, holding him in place so that there was no danger of missing even a single inch. His mouth worked frantically from the corner of Jon's lips, to his jaw and back. He slid his free hand up to cup the other side of Jon's cheek and _finally_ firmly pressed his mouth against the other's. Jon's lips parted easily under this attention, and Sherlock whined when he felt a soft, warm tongue slide alongside his. Sherlock sucked it into his mouth, and rather than the exciting, arousing sensation it usually was, it suddenly felt as if their tongues had become weapons to duel against the other. An instrument of battle rather than one of strictly pleasure. Sherlock growled with some strangely primitive response and tugged Jon even closer, mixing in bites with his kisses. His hands slid down to find and grip Jon's. His fingers skimmed every dip between every finger, over his palms and wrists. Every place that Cleitomachus had touched Sherlock determined should be wiped away by his.

Jon pulled back to heave in a gasp of air, and Sherlock let him have it for only a moment before plunging back in to claim that mouth. Jon swayed where he stood and pressed his heated body into Sherlock's, gripping his waist with frantic hands, and Sherlock rumbled his approval deep in his throat. The image of Cleitomachus against him, taking Jon's hands and pressing his lips to Jon's made Sherlock's blood boil, and his limited breath caught again in his throat. He gasped against Jon's lips and threaded his fingers in Jon's hair.

"Jon," he choked against his mouth. He smeared his face against Jon's cheek, letting the sensation drive away the hateful memory. Replace it with a better one. Vaguely, he noted his chest ached for want of air, but he could not bear to tear himself away from Jon, even as he grew dizzy.

"Sherlock," Jon breathed, pulling back with his own gasping breaths. Jon's hands cupped Sherlock's cheeks and he nuzzled his nose. "Sherlock, breathe," he gently ordered. "You're hyperventilating, _breathe_." Jon ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls and he shook his head. "Possessive thing—”

Sherlock jerked away at his words, eyes wide and pained. "You let him _touch_ you." His voice broke and he looked away to gather himself. His heart and lungs were both racing and he could feel Jon's pulse hammering against his forearms where they bracketed his skull.

Jon stared with wide, frightened eyes, and he nervously gripped Sherlock's chiton between his fingers.

"He," Sherlock continued, feeling his throat constrict, "he asked you. And you..." Sherlock's voice cracked, his throat burned. He dragged his gaze up to meet Jon's and his heart suddenly swelled with conviction. "I do not have his titles, nor his status. I know that I cannot offer you... _anything_. Not really."

"Sherlock," Jon sighed, broken before him. Jon's fingers twined through Sherlock's curls, tightening rhythmically, but Sherlock continued with dogged determination.

"Please, hear me. I know I cannot offer you anything he can, not for that path. But," he swallowed and took a gulping breath. "I can offer you _me_." Jon's breath hitched, and Sherlock continued, letting his mouth simply form the words his brain was hurling at him quicker than he could think them through. "For some reason my brain does not always work the way it should when I think of you. Or am simply with you. Isn't that amazing?”

Jon cocked his head and a small, confused smile tugged one corner of his lips.

Sherlock swallowed nervously and his fingers slid down to rest against the base of Jon's neck. "When I look at other people, I can see their history before me, clear as day. Little details flood my sight. I can see where a person has been, what they ate in the morning, how many children they have, whether or not they like _honey_ for goodness sake. And I see you." His fingers flexed against the warm, slightly damp flesh at his hairline. “I see you and sometimes there aren’t even thoughts.”

Jon’s hands curled then around Sherlock’s elbows, and that touch, so soft, so very Jon, made his heart jump.

“I think,” Sherlock continued, “I think that happens because it doesn’t _matter_.”

Jon arched a brow, and Sherlock rushed to explain.

“No, no, it matters, it matters the _most_ , but I mean, oh Hermes how is this so difficult? These are only words; I use them a thousand times a day, but it is _you_. When you look at me, sometimes I do not even have words, thoughts, because they aren't needed. With you it does not matter how clever I am, or that I am different.” Sherlock exhaled and leaned forward. “You are the one person who I can simply be myself around and it does not drive you away.”

“Sherlock,” Jon murmured. He pulled Sherlock against him, pressed him close. Sherlock sunk into his embrace, resting his cheek at Jon's sweaty temple. His arms slipped around Jon's waist and squeezed, afraid to say his next words while meeting Jon's eye.

“I mean to say… I love you, Jon. I… you are important. The _most_ important and I want to be _yours_ ,” he whispered. His eyes blurred with damnable _tears_ and he clutched at Jon more tightly. “I want you to be _only_ mine just as I feel that I am only _yours_.”

Sherlock pulled back, desperation making his breath quicken in his lungs. He gripped the fabric of Jon’s chiton and nuzzled Jon’s nose with his. “Please. I know Cleitomachus has… connections, he is… a good man… but, I can be, too. I will be. I will for you. We are still young, but, I cannot lose you and—“

“Sherlock, listen—"

“No!” Sherlock swiped a tear from his cheek and gripped Jon’s arms again. “I do not know what he has offered, but I promise you, I will better it. I will—"

“ _Sherlock_!” Jon cried, gently shaking him until Sherlock ceased his babbling enough to catch his breath. Jon laughed. His eyes softened and he fondly shook his head. “Let me speak,” he chuckled.

Sherlock blinked several times, and nodded tremulously. “S-sorry. Yes, of course.”

“Shhh,” Jon soothed. He carefully smoothed dark curls back from where they’d fallen across Sherlock's forehead, nearly past his eyes. Jon smiled and petted at him, running his fingers through those curls. Sherlock closed his eyes, thinking he could purr if he had the capacity to do so.

“You,” Jon said, speaking gently, “obviously did not hear much between us.”

Sherlock shook his head and then pushed his face down into Jon’s neck. His arms again slipped round Jon’s waist and he focused on the scent of his skin. Of the faint pulse along his throat. “I did not _hear_ anything. But I _saw_...”

Jon huffed and rubbed his fingers along Sherlock’s spine. “You daft ox. Of course you didn’t.” He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s jaw. “If you had, you would not be this worked up.”

Sherlock paused, breath stilling, hope blossoming. “What did I not hear?”

Jon hugged Sherlock close, whispering in his ear. “You did not hear Cleitomachus telling me how very much he wanted me to be his erômenos.” Sherlock whimpered. Jon kissed the lobe that heated beneath his words. "You did not hear him lament that he feared our timing might not work," Jon nuzzled the spot below his ear, and Sherlock trembled. "That he merely stated his intention, but instead asked to see me again in the Spring." He nipped where he'd pressed a kiss. "That I agreed to remain his friend, but Sherlock," Jon pulled back, and Sherlock's eyes blurred and his heart kicked and sputtered. "There was no formal agreement. I told him, given the directions our lives were going, that it did not seem a wise course. That I was content as I was. Vastly so."

Sherlock's fingers dug into Jon's waist. "For now or at all?"

Jon bit his lip and his eyes darted away. "For now," he admitted. Sherlock groaned and Jon swiftly pressed his lips to Sherlock's. "He was very insistent. Sherlock, stop. If he plans to do all he means to he will not have time for me. It is a bridge that has not been burnt. You have to agree it is best to keep him in in our good graces, especially if the possibility of war is looming ahead—"

"But you are not _his_ then?" Sherlock interrupted.

Jon smiled. "No. I am not."

Sherlock felt his entire chest deflate in relief. "And you... you understand what _I_ am asking?"

Jon's smile cracked wide and he nodded. "You are formally asking to be mine. And for me to be yours."

Sherlock melted into Jon's body, breathing a kiss into his lips. "Yes, Jon. Yes, yes, _yes_."

Jon laughed, squeezing his arms tightly about Sherlock's back. "You ridiculous thing. I have always been yours." Their noses bumped and nuzzled. "And I will chase off _anyone_ who tries to come between us."

"Jon!" Sherlock cried and surged against him. His heart was fit to bursting, and he smiled even as their teeth clacked together with the ferocity of their kiss. Their mouths met and their tongues brushed and curled against each other. Hands gripped, frantic and trembling, and Sherlock could not touch enough of him quickly enough. They stumbled together clumsily, swaying back and forth. Their feet tripped the other up, and they laughed as much as they groaned into their kisses. Fire had once again leapt to life inside Sherlock's belly, and his stomach pulled and ached with need for his friend. For his friend who wanted him, too. His lips parted around a gulp of air. "I want... something... _you_ ," he gasped against Jon's lips. "I want _you_ so much... Jon, I don't know what to do."

Jon groaned and pulled Sherlock against him, grinding his pelvis into Sherlock's so that his mind went white and then black with surprised pleasure. "We will figure it out." He pulled on Sherlock's lower lip with his teeth and dipped his sweet, hot tongue back into Sherlock's mouth. " _Together_. We will figure it all out, okay?"

Sherlock herded him towards the cover of the olive trees, breathless with anticipation and shaking so hard he could hardly stay upright. Jon alternated between giggling and whimpering at Sherlock's touches, and his fingers maintained an iron grip on his hips.

Jon whirled Sherlock so that he was slammed up against the nearest tree at his back, and Sherlock's shaking hands rubbed anxiously up and down his sides, not precisely sure what he should do with them. Their mouths met again, and Sherlock groaned, long and low when Jon plastered their fronts together. Their bodies wriggled and writhed, and Sherlock's skin lit up with flame to match that which was burning inside. The feel of Jon's hard muscles twitching against him, of his hands running along his skin had Sherlock twitching with impatience and lust. Tentative fingers crept down to the hem at Sherlock's thighs and paused. Sherlock breathed harshly against Jon's face, and he slid his hands down to cover Jon's.

"Please," he whispered. "You can t-touch me. Please," he kissed Jon's jaw. "Touch me. I want you to."

Jon moaned and hurried to comply, lifting Sherlock's chiton up his thighs and over his hips. They briefly struggled with the fibula, but Jon growled and ended up jerking it solidly up and away. His hands immediately returned to the cloth wrapped around his hips, and Sherlock felt his hesitation like a question asked aloud.

"Take them off."

Jon's fingers worked quickly to unwrap him, and Sherlock cursed the inconvenience of the night because he couldn't _see_ anything. He desperately wanted to see the urgency in Jon's face, to see him equally revealed to him, naked and trembling. And he _was_ trembling, just as much as Sherlock, who likewise reached for Jon's chiton to tug away. For a moment, a giddy smile stretched his lips, and he felt the awe of what was happening slam into him.

Not wanting to miss out on his own opportunity to touch, Sherlock's fingers hurriedly skimmed down to the hem of Jon's fetching chiton. Jon quickly nodded his agreement at Sherlock's actions. Kissed his approval into his jaw, dragged his tongue down his long throat, and Sherlock arched his neck in encouragement. Gods, Jon's tongue against his skin was positively _decadent_. And when Jon bit down on the juncture of his neck, Sherlock's hips jerked forward in surprise and he choked on his own tongue. His fingers tugged at Jon's hair, keeping his mouth right there.

"Do it again," he growled, and then moaned when Jon's teeth sank back into his skin. He mewled when a hot tongue laved the surface after.

A sudden rush of cool night air at his fevered groin pulled a strained gasp from Sherlock's throat, and with a jolt, he realised he was fully naked and aroused before Jon. A conscious, awake, _wanting_ Jon, for the first time. Embarrassed heat crept up the back of his neck, and for a moment he decided he was grateful for the cover of night. He could feel his erection bump excitedly against his abdomen, and he wriggled with anticipation, and a bit of fear, at the knowledge that Jon would soon know this part of him.

Jon made a sound deep in his throat and Sherlock felt warm palms splay over his chest. "Damn this darkness. I want to _see_ you."

Sherlock nuzzled at his throat and kissed his way to his collarbones. "Next time," he promised. Then, with a flash of bravery, he took Jon's left hand within his and directed it to his straining member. "Please, Jon. Please," he murmured.

Jon's heavy breathing sounded in his ear, raising gooseflesh along his neck, and Sherlock tensed. Finally, at long last, Jon's fingers brushed against the amazingly sensitive flesh of his aroused penis. Sherlock sucked in a shocked gasp, and pushed back into them. "Jon!" he cried.

Jon pulled his hand away in alarm. "What! Did it hurt?!"

Sherlock immediately brought his hand back to his cock. "Gods no, do _not_ stop. K-keep... ohhhh," he exhaled. Jon's warm fingers wrapped around his length, and he gave Sherlock a careful stroke. Sherlock's body positively melted into Jon's and his mouth fell open at the glorious rush of sensation. He breathed against Jon's throat, arms draped over his shoulders, and revelled in the new sensations of Jon's hand working up and down his erection. The feeling was so incredibly different than it was on his own. So much amazingly better. He licked his lips, tasting the salt of Jon's skin, and mindlessly sucked that skin into his mouth.

"How is it?" Jon whispered with a catch in his voice.

Sherlock hummed and lightly scratched his nails along Jon's upper back. "You can... c-can squeeze me tighter _OH_ , oh yes, like that, Jon." Sherlock breathed through the pleasure for a moment, and swallowed around his dry throat. "'S'incredible," he mumbled.

Jon moaned and squeezed his fingers, rhythmically, around his heated flesh, and Sherlock couldn't wait to do it to Jon. To have him experience such a feeling for the first time at his hands. He shook himself and leaned back up. Why couldn't he start then?

With shaking hands, Sherlock worked at the cloth around Jon's hips, and Jon paused for a moment to help him get free. "Can I?" Sherlock whispered into the dark. That seemed to be their default speaking volume. As if afraid that anything louder might shatter their bubble of intimacy.

"Yes!" he cried instantly. Sherlock grinned and licked at his jaw, letting his fingers trail delicately down Jon's firm abdomen. He smiled to feel his muscles shiver in response.

"Jon," he sighed, pressing close to his heated skin. Desperate for as much contact as possible. Jon slipped his free arm round Sherlock's back. His broad palm settled boldly over the plush curve of his arse and he squeezed. Sherlock gasped and nipped at Jon's skin, and when his own fingers bumped into the moist, hot tip of Jon's erection, he felt his gut tighten even further with lust.

Sherlock dragged his fingers gently down its length, and he marvelled at the difference of Jon's penis as compared to his. Jon was much thicker than Sherlock. His length was also impressive. Not quite as long as Sherlock, but very, very nearly. Sherlock felt saliva gather in his mouth, and he was shocked at the desire he suddenly felt to want to taste him. To feel how he would fit against his tongue, inside his mouth. But he also felt shy about such things. He dimly resolved to try that at another time, but for that moment, Sherlock firmly wrapped his long fingers around Jon's length and smiled to feel Jon's muscles flutter against him. Jon's own hand ceased its movement around Sherlock's prick, and instead gently held him within the heat of his palm. His breaths puffed roughly against Sherlock's chest, and his hips moved in jerky snaps into the circle of his fist. A wicked grin curved Sherlock's lips, and he squeezed. Jon yelped and pulled back, and Sherlock released him in alarm.

"Too much," Jon gasped.

Sherlock flushed, and apologised with a kiss. Nevertheless, Jon was quickly back in his grip, and Sherlock took care to go more gently with his explorations. He moved his hand slowly, up and down, from root to tip. Jon moaned quietly into his chest, and Sherlock's stroke faltered when he felt Jon grip him back to continue his ministrations with Sherlock's cock.

As they learned how to touch, the boys both groaned, twitched, jerked, writhed against the other, until Sherlock's stomach was bubbling with lust. Heat swirled and pulled deep at his inner muscles, and his mind lit up with joy at the fact of what they were doing. _Together_! No one had ever touched the other in this way before. They were each other's firsts, which was precisely how it should be. And Eros be praised, but nothing had ever felt more marvellous in his life! He thought the way the crown of Jon's penis slipped from his fingers to his palm and back was one of the most erotic things he'd ever yet felt. The way Jon shivered and whimpered against him was more beautiful than any music he'd ever heard.

After knocking wrists a few times, they ultimately found a rhythm that had them mutually panting and moaning. Their pricks were both steadily leaking, slicking their hands as they slid over heated, straining flesh, easing the rub of friction. At one point, Sherlock's knees wobbled, and he soon found himself pressed back against the tree with Jon smeared up against him for support.

"Sherlock," Jon choked, "I am... oh _gods_ , are you... I cannot... I am going to soon," he gasped.

Sherlock nodded, feeling the tingling coil of his own orgasm building in his spine, gathering in his testicles. "You feel...so good," he panted, speeding up his strokes.

Jon moaned into his neck, and Sherlock arched when he felt teeth once more biting into the flesh at his shoulder. His hips jerked and without warning the sharp, clear punch of orgasm exploded from his core, and he fucked up into the tight heat of Jon's hand with a cry. His other hand clawed against Jon's back as he rutted against his friend, dimly registering Jon's own excited thrusts coming faster and faster. Pleasure raced through his veins as the first pulse of ejaculate shot from his prick. His skin tingled at every point as warmth washed over him again and again. His eyes had slammed shut and Jon jerked and cried out beside him while Sherlock shook apart in his arms.

With a final, weak thrust, Sherlock collapsed into Jon. He felt the thick, wet drip of Jon's emissions sliding down his chest and hand. He heard Jon giggle. His friend wrapped his arms around Sherlock and then they were gracelessly tumbling down to the cool grass in a tangle of sweaty limbs. With a grunt, Sherlock fell atop Jon, breath gusting raggedly, and smiling like the world's most lovestruck fool. His thighs bracketed Jon's heated body and it was bliss. Jon's ribs expanded and contracted beneath him, and Sherlock pressed more fluttering kisses up his chest to his throat. He darted his tongue out to taste the salt of sweat gathering in the dip of Jon's throat. He hummed with contentment when Jon's strong arms again wrapped round his back, encircling him in a warm, snug embrace.

Beneath him, around him, Sherlock felt Jon's pulse throughout his body, and he pressed his ear against the rapid beating of his heart. Sherlock glowed with pride at having done that to Jon. At having given him such pleasure. He buzzed with happiness, his body lax in blissful lassitude, and he nuzzled Jon's neck and jaw. For a beautiful moment, everything was utterly delightful. Utterly perfect.

"That," Jon breathed, "was... amazing."

Sherlock shook with laughter atop him, and scooted up to be face to face with his beloved. "It was rather."

"We," Jon continued, running the fingers of one hand along Sherlock's flushed cheek, "will be repeating this in future."

Sherlock eagerly nodded, squeezing Jon's sides with his thighs and dipping low for a kiss. Jon sighed into his mouth, and his lips moved gently against his in stark contrast to their earlier, frantic desperation. Their mouths met and retreated only to meet again in sweet pecks and lingering presses. Something pulsed warm and deep in Sherlock's chest at this tender affection, and he ducked his chin to press his face into Jon's warm neck. The scent of him, of salt, and musk, and damp earth pulled a shiver from his frame, and Jon tightened his hold around him.

"You cannot possibly be cold. I'm the one lying in the dewy grass, getting bits of things stuck all over me," Jon teased. He shook hard with a quick laugh. "I imagine we must look a mess." He pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock's head. "We will need to enter quietly and clean up, else your father will know what we... erm, have been up to."

Sherlock slid his arms underneath Jon's, wriggled his hands to cradle the back of Jon's head in his palms and snuggled in further. "Let him. They will figure it out eventually."

Jon stroked the tips of his fingers lightly over Sherlock's damp, rapidly cooling back. "Is that... do you want them to know?"

Sherlock licked again at the dip in Jon's throat and shrugged. "We can tell them." He paused in thought, then, "I want everyone to know. If you want people to know, Jon, I would tell everyone we see."

Jon quietly chuckled and continued stroking Sherlock's back again. Sherlock subtly arched into the touch and closed his eyes.

"I am glad," Jon whispered. "However, perhaps it would be more... prudent to delay."

Sherlock made an enquiring sound and listened while Jon filled his lungs with air to reply.

"Your father wants to see us... growing up. Finding more associations."

Sherlock frowned in the dark and unconsciously squeezed the long limbs caging Jon's body. "He all but gave us permission earlier."

Jon froze beneath him. "What?"

Sherlock sniffed. "He told me about his own ' _childhood friend_ ' and admitted that they are beneficial associations." Sherlock pointedly left off the bit about how they should also be temporary. Just because Sherlock's father was not brave enough to buck social obligation did not mean that _he_ would. Jon was what and who he wanted. And as long as Jon continued wanting him, he felt there was no need for either to discuss separation. Sherlock swallowed at the thought and nuzzled again into his friend. Not ever.

"It was not a public blessing," he continued, "but it may as well have been."

Jon was quiet beneath him. Contemplating.

"Well," he finally said, "I would feel more comfortable if we were discreet. At least at first." Sherlock arched a brow when he felt Jon shiver beneath him. "Your father may turn a blind eye now, but I fear he will not always do so. I do not want to antagonise him and risk being forced apart."

Sherlock frowned even harder. "I would never let that happen. I do not care what he says; he does not control everything."

"He _is_ your father."

"Be that as it may, Jon, _I_ am _yours_ for as long as you will have me."

Sherlock felt Jon go still, and only the momentary twitch of his stomach tensing beneath him was his warning before Jon was curling up, cupping Sherlock's face and meeting his mouth in a searing kiss. Sherlock moaned into those lips, widening his mouth to accept the tongue that slipped inside. His arms twined about Jon's neck, his long legs wrapped around trim hips.

"Sherlock," Jon sighed as if directly into Sherlock's soul.

They kissed for long, glorious moments while night continued to fall around them. Wind rustled the leaves of the olives. The occasional bird cried; the cicadas sang on. Fingers gently explored and lips followed. Romantic as it was, though, eventually the practicality of their situation became problematic, and soon they both began to shiver at the chill surrounding their naked bodies.

"We should go inside," Jon murmured against the skin he was tasting between Sherlock's scapulae.

"Boring," Sherlock sighed. He pressed his back into the warmth of Jon's front. Thick thighs were wrapped around him, and Sherlock melted back into his friend, twining their fingers together before him.

Jon chuckled against him, and he pulled his friend close to mouth at his ear. "You know," Jon rumbled, "if we go inside, there will be lamps. And soft beds."

Sherlock thought about this. Jon was brilliant, of course.

"I agree to these terms," Sherlock announced. "But I cannot possibly move on my own. You're far too comfortable."

Jon laughed outright at that and playfully bit at Sherlock's neck. He pushed himself back, and Sherlock grumbled at the sudden loss of heat behind him. Jon reached a hand down to haul him up, and then pulled him back into his embrace. Now that they knew each other it was almost physically painful to separate. How Sherlock had ever lived before with Jon's body against his so often, yet not known the true pleasure it could bring him was ludicrous. Knowing what he did then, intimately so, he could not imagine ever going back. And still there was so much more to learn! Sherlock shivered in anticipation.

"We should find our clothes."

Sherlock's eyes widened in the dark and he momentarily stopped thinking of carnal pleasures. "My fibula," he croaked. "If I have lost that, mother will commit filicide."

Jon's laugh abruptly broke off. "She will, too." He stepped back and Sherlock heard the shuffling sound of his feet in the grass. "We had better hope we did not ruin these garments, either. I do not look forward to making her cross again."

"Nor I," Sherlock agreed.

They each fumbled about in the darkness, patting along the damp earth. More than once their hands smacked into each other which prompted a round of love-drunk giggles. It took several more minutes of accidental, and purposeful, fumbling, interspersed with more kissing and gentle, eager touches, before they were dressed as well as could be hoped for. The night covered all but the palest outline of the white in their chitons. They looped their fingers together, and made their way back to the villa. Though, halfway there, Jon ended up taking advantage of Sherlock by using him as a crutch because as soon as the endorphins ran out, Jon's hip began rather insistently throbbing.

"Actually," he winced, "perhaps we should just sleep tonight."

Sherlock frowned, easing him carefully up the steps to their vestibule. "Naked, though," he countered. He could all but see Jon rolling his eyes.

Jon turned his head and pressed a quiet kiss to his shoulder. "Obviously, genius."

 

 

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

 

Inside, it was quiet, save for the singing of a thousand cicadas.

Jon was curled up next to him, bare, warm, soft. After he had told his parents of what he and Cleitomachus had spoken of, Alcestis quickly swept them away from Septimius, before he could say anything, and off to Jon's room. Quietly, subtly, she had rejoiced with her son at the fact that they would be keeping Jon much longer. His mother had flitted about, cooing over Jon's twinging injury and settling him down for sleep. She had kissed them both goodnight, smiled softly at them once more, and left with a quiet reminder to let Jon rest.

After, they had lain together, legs gently tangled, curious fingers skimming over skin and cloth, and listened to the sounds of the house go still, and then silent. When they had deemed it safe, Sherlock carefully undressed them both, mindful of Jon's hip, and arranged two burning lamps beside the bed in order to better see. Shy, tentative fingers skimmed over Jon's flesh, which was even more amazing for his being able to touch so freely. In the light, Sherlock had felt a slight embarrassment at touching Jon so intimately; having Jon watch him do so. Granted, they had brought each other to orgasm mere hours previous, but it had been dark then. Still secretive.

As Sherlock had continued to map new places, Jon had eventually reneged and said he was fine with more daring touches after all. Sherlock had smiled, leaned forward, and brushed his lips against the youth's, murmuring, "We have all the time in the world." For the moment, it was enough to simply touch. To explore.

Jon, too, had eagerly returned Sherlock's touches. His dark eyes had flicked to Sherlock's repeatedly, searching for reassurance that what he did was all right. Sherlock had run his fingers over Jon's firm biceps, nodding his encouragement, had sighed his contentment as his beloved curiously learned his body. Never in his life had something felt so intimate. Had felt so exposed, and yet trusting, as he lay bare for Jon. Time passed, achingly slow, but soon enough, they grew drowsy with affection. Heavy eyelids drooped, creeping fingers had slowed, and Jon finally turned to him to sleep.

 

 

Within, it was quiet, but Sherlock lay with Jon's head on his chest and listened to the cicadas sing their final songs of the day for want of a mate. Sherlock smiled into the dark. The fingers of one hand were buried in his best friend's golden hair, the other lay warm against his back. He closed his eyes.

He had found his mate. And they had all the time in the world.

 

 

-*- φιλία -*-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW. BOOK I IS COMPLETE. 
> 
> This is the longest thing I have ever finished! And written!!! I am so freaking proud of myself, heh. So! Precious Greek babies found love. This is quite a different setting, so how do you think it held up? I am already firmly working on the next book in the Greek Song 'verse (There will be at least one, possibly two more books for this series because they have a lot more story left.) and can't wait to start sharing it with you all. In my opinion, the next one is even better than this one. Granted, I'm biased because I just love this story, and I have no qualms in admitting so. ;) For once, it's nice thing to realise how much I love a finished product.
> 
> I would also like to deeply thank the lovely, lovely followers who have kept up with this story, and who have given such wonderful, encouraging comments. You are all just the best, and I really, really thank you. I also hope to see you in the next round. <3 [update: Ummmm, do we see that GORGEOUS Athenian vessel of my babies above? Well, that _paper_ replica was created by the insanely talented [TheGayDivorcee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thegaydivorcee), and there will be more where that comes from and I lost my entire mind when I saw it! Wow!!! I just.... WOW!!!!]
> 
> Speaking of, I've mentioned in comments before that I will not be strictly following the canon timeline because 1) it's been done literally thousands of times and ffs let's move on, and 2) that's the fun of AU! Some things will be vaguely recognisable; in an Hellenistic Greek setting, rather, but don't expect any pink suitcases. Like at all. Or Chinese acrobats. Or hounds. None of that.
> 
> Do, however, expect the following:
> 
> -Multiple, different character POVs. Including Jon's and Alcestis'!!!  
> -Re-introduction of familiar characters (Princess Iris, anyone?)  
> -Porn  
> -Ships  
> -EGYPT  
> -More porn  
> -Angst  
> -Greek Academy  
> -Actual stolen hearts  
> -Lots of filthy gay porn  
> -Camels. Probably.  
> -Really, so much angst. I apologise in advance.  
> -And more porn
> 
> Anyway. I will probably take some time to get several chapters written and finished before I even think about posting, so it may be a while. Please [subscribe to the series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/203438), mark for later, bookmark, or whatever your little heart requires (all of it! your heart requires all of it!) so that you may be in the know. I do have a tumblr, as well.
> 
> See you in Athens!
> 
> xoxo,  
> Nom


End file.
